


Babysitting Tony Stark is a Hazardous Obligation

by SomeoneToCarryYou



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Avenger Loki, Avengers Family, Bruce Banner & Tony Stark Friendship, Bruce Banner Needs a Hug, Bucky Barnes & Steve Rogers Friendship, Bucky Barnes Has Issues, Bucky Barnes Remembers, Canon-Typical Violence, Ceiling Vent Clint Barton, Deaf Clint Barton, Domestic Avengers, Extremis Pepper Potts, F/F, F/M, Hurt Tony, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Natasha Romanov Has Issues, Nick Fury is Not Amused, Non-Canon Relationship, Phil Coulson Has the Patience of a Saint, Protective Avengers, Protective Steve, Tony Stark Doesn't Like Being Handed Things, Tony Stark Has Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-10-01
Updated: 2015-05-06
Packaged: 2018-02-19 13:36:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 22,729
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2390249
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SomeoneToCarryYou/pseuds/SomeoneToCarryYou
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Having been reunited with Steve and forcibly moved into Avengers Tower, Bucky Barnes is still fighting his Winter Soldier programming. The Avengers give him a list of Rules that Tony is expected to follow when out in public, and Bucky is asked to go errand running with him to make sure he follows them so the Avengers don't end up fighting an enormous gelatinous squid in downtown Manhattan, armed only with toothpaste and explosive-lined high heels. Again. </p>
<p>How hard could babysitting a caffeine addicted genius be? </p>
<p>(Apparently, very, very hard. And they may need those exploding pumps again.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. How Hard Could It Be?

**Author's Note:**

> Hello all! This is my first fanfic, and it is currently unfinished but on it's way! Be honest but kind. 
> 
> The main ship here is Bucky/Tony and I love a tragic past and fluffiness, so be prepared.

It’s a simple mission. 

Tony is going to run a few errands, and Bucky has to make sure he doesn’t break the Rules. Steve and the others gave Tony Rules for shopping, but he doesn’t seem overly inclined to follow them. It’s baffling, at least to the part of Bucky that can still be baffled. When he is given Rules or a Mission, it becomes the singular most important aspect of his life. He dare not disobey. Tony treats Rules like vaguely annoying suggestions or wholly unwelcome restrictions. That is why Steve gently orders him to go with Tony, keep an eye on him. It’s a welcome mission in many respects. Steve has finally learned that Bucky is the Winter Soldier still, he needs jobs, work, and something to focus on that isn’t whatever nonsense the TV spits out at one in the afternoon on a Thursday. It’s probably just Steve trying to kill two birds with one stone, Tony follows the Rules, and Bucky safely gets out of the house. He was going to stealthily follow Tony, blending in and interfering only when the situation demanded it, but that morning, Tony had drank his ninth cup of coffee, and shouted “WHOEVER CAPTAIN TIGHTPANTS ASSIGNED TO ME JUST GET IN THE DAMN SPORTSCAR!” loud enough to startle Bucky, who had been hanging from the rafters in the garage, into falling into the car. Satisfied, Tony had merely started the car and gunned it out of there. “Barton likes to hide up there too. To be honest I thought it was him, or I might have invited you a bit nicer,” Tony commented when they hit a red light. Bucky turned and gave him an unimpressed snort. “No you wouldn’t have.” That earned him a wide grin and a “Probably not,” before they were off again. The speed felt nice, the air cold and fast in his hair, tied back in a ponytail because some part of him didn’t want it cut. He was alert, focused, but relaxed by the simple fact he had a mission again. Steve and the others had read him the Rules, and he had an unnecessary physical copy written in purple crayon by Clint. The car swerved into a parking lot and Bucky allowed himself a small grin. 

 

How hard could it be?


	2. Salsa, Bulletproof Suits, and the Build-a-Bear Apocalypse

Tony got out of the car without checking to see if Bucky was following, and strutted over to the glass doors of a sleek building with all tinted windows, throwing them opened like he owned the place. Knowing Tony, that wasn't out of the question, so Bucky followed, quietly, scanning for threats behind racks of zipped bags and possibly phallic shaped turquoise blue couches. His flesh and bone hand twitched to the small Glock under his loose shirt, but he fought the impulse to carry it openly. That was something the Winter Soldier did. He paraded around armed to the teeth, using the physical presence of his considerable arsenal as part of his intimidation tactic. Frightened targets made mistakes, mistakes made them easier to kill. A quick snippet of a memory, sepia colored in his mind’s eye, played out, of a man with a curling grey beard and a bowler hat tripping and crawling away, waving his arms and screaming in Polish for his family to run, run, for the love of Jesus run! But it was too late, Bucky was right there, silent as the snow settling on the dirt around them, evaporating around the overturned and burning car beside the road, next to which his family was frozen in shock and fear. Bucky was moving slowly, mocking his pain. That’s what his mission was, kill him slowly, and make him afraid. More afraid than Bowler Hat Man had ever been in his entire life. So Bucky pulled the semi-automatic from his hip and fired one shot into Bowler Hat Man’s knee caps from behind, kicking him onto his back and dragging him to his family, before putting the gun back and sliding the knife from his calf with the metal fingers, The next step had been clearly outlined: disable target then slaughter his wife and his four daughters. 

The snow fell faster, the youngest daughter was tugging away from her mother to run to her father, green dressed soaked with oil from the car and the saturation of the snow. She threw herself down over her father with all the ignorant bravery of a child, hands fisting in his jacket, braids undone. It had brought to mind a blurred picture of a too-frail boy with sunshine hair who threw himself into situations as dangerous as this. But even as it dripped into his memory, it was fading, gone as soon as he focused on it. The mother’s mouth moved but no words flowed, it was the eldest daughter, dressed conservatively in white and red with a soft fur coat, who screamed for Anya to come back, to go away, any kind of motion away from Bucky, who waited like a vulture. Finally she slapped her mother, frantically pushing the older woman and the other two girls toward the road, before moving quickly to stand between Bucky and her father and sister, hands wide as if just her flesh could stop his advance. He tossed up the knife, catching it blade out and stepping forward, ignoring the howl of the wind in his ears, and her shaking words, half prayer and half threat. “Stay away, stay away! Jesus! Jesus! Stay away from them you monster! Stay-“ her words died in her throat when he cut it open, a single flicking motion of his wrist ending her life as blood pooled and painted the snow where her body collapsed. The little one began screaming, so he silenced her too, letting the blood gather and stain Bowler Hat Man’s jacket as he wept brokenly. 

Bucky turned to get the three who’d started down the road, to drag them back and kill them before putting a bullet in Bowler Hat Man’s stomach. It was bloody and brutal and flashed through his memory in less than 30 seconds, before he was back in the fancy store, Tony’s hand on his shoulder, his words a muted flow until, like surfacing from the water, he heard them. “-and you know it’s just bad manners, so I took the monkey and his stupid sombrero and threw him at the bishop. He dropped the book and his salsa, which was a shame because I am fairly certain that would have been excellent salsa, the kind you can only get if you use real cilantro, without any of those pesticide things they spray. And I love salsa, especially Bruce’s salsa. Has Bruce made you salsa yet? It’s out of this world, and I feel qualified to say that because I have been out of this world, carrying a nuke granted, and I died briefly on the return trip, but my God I’d come back just for that amazing salsa. I don’t know where he learned to make it, he was in India for a while but salsa isn’t Indian, though he also makes amazing Indian food too, just not mixed with salsa. Bad combo that but still both amazing. If he wasn't so adorably self-conscious I’d get him a cooking show. That’d be something. I’d have to come up with something puny for the name, and I’d get to name it because I’d be paying for it, but he could keep all the profits. I just want a picture of him in the fluffy chef hat.” When Bucky blinked he realized Tony and he were sitting on one of the suggestive blue couches near a window, Tony talking to him in a casual friendly tone. A woman walked past them, didn't even notice the pair of them. 

He’d come close to losing it and killing everyone in a ten miles radius, and because of Tony’s calm voice and the warmth of his hand on Bucky’s shoulder she never had to know that. Tony grinned, quick and easy and stood. “Good, you’re back with us. Honey, please grab Damino for me, he’s expecting us.” She turned with a nod and disappeared into the curtains behind the counter, the click of her low heels on the marble floor chasing after her. Before Bucky could say anything, Tony was dropping a glass of water into his hand and texting Bruce, murmuring the message under his breath as his dexterous fingers typed it out. All Bucky caught was the word “salsa” and “fluffy hats”, before Tony was sliding the phone into his pocket and embracing a large man with a balding head and beer gut trapped in a floral tailored shirt. The river of words, introductions and inside jokes, was accompanied by a wild fluttering of his hands. Damino grinned, looked notably friendlier when he did so, and answered with dancing hands of his own. Bucky shook himself back into a more focused mindset and recognized a few of the gestures as American Sign Language. Tony touched Bucky’s hand for a barely a second, motioning for him to get up and walk with them behind the counter and into a room right off the small hallway, full of lights, mirrors and fabric samples. “Damino here is the best tailor in the Western Hemisphere, absolutely brilliant,” his hands kept moving, signing to Damino everything he said to Bucky as he hopped into a chair and tugged one close for Bucky to sit in, which he did so slowly.

Mostly reoriented again, he tried to track their conversation, but failed, only recognizing a handful, no pun intended, of signs. Thankfully Tony’s constant narration kept him in the loop. “I’m also here for the stuff I ordered for Cap, Hawkeye, Bruce, and Thor. Oh Bucky here needs something. I hate these publicity things. You want a picture? Take one while the alien snails are demolishing 32nd street and put it on Pintrest. I’d rather be in the workshop. But it’s this big thank you dinner from the mayor and you know how he gets when you miss one too many of his little shindigs, all pouty and trying to make you pay higher tolls on the bridge but-“ Damino was nodding along, walking in and out of the room to gather a bunch of zipped bags, presumably for the suits. He walked over and showed Bucky a bunch of bits of fabric, stuck together on a metal ring. He wanted to laugh, imagining himself back in Brooklyn before the war, and how that Bucky would feel about rubbing these fancy-schmancy suit fabrics between his fingers so he could pick what he liked best. Nothing good, that was for sure. He was stuck between two, and could feel Tony itching to give a suggestion, but when asked he refused to weigh in. When Damino quirked his eyebrow, Tony shrugged and signed something without sharing what it was, but Damino accepted it and waited patiently, before Bucky picked the charcoal one, because it was soft and looked a bit like dulled metal. He submitted himself to being measured, something he was a touch uncomfortable with, and settled back in his seat with the Starkphone while Tony paid. Google was very useful, and he finally found the right results. “He doesn't get to make a lot of choices, let him pick for himself”. Bucky repeated the words that SignsToWord.com had offered as a translation for those unexplained signs Tony had made to Damino. Not everything translated directly, but Bucky got the gist. 

 

When Steve and Sam had ‘escorted him’ from the hovel he’d been unofficially borrowing to SHEILD, and then from SHEILD to Stark Tower, Bucky had learned a lot about the team. Clint Barton, aka Hawkeye, acted like a jackass and liked to play stupid, but he had a knack for patterns that Bucky, as a sniper, could certainly appreciate. He had an older brother no one referenced ever, and had literally run away and joined the circus, resulting in an affinity for animals that had him swooping down in the middle of a fight to save a box of kittens, name all the kittens, and promptly shove an arrow in the eye of whoever questioned it. Good guy to talk to about weapons. Natasha Romanov, formerly of the Red Room, was beautiful and lethal as he remembered, distantly though it was. She had a protective fondness for Clint as a result of an incident known only as ‘Budapest’ that had resulted in Clint’s kill order on the assassin to a recruitment order. He was also about 90% sure she could kill a man with her thighs. Thor was a Norse god, and Bucky wasn't even going touch the implications of that, who liked to party, drank like a fish, made shouting pronouncements in outdated English and had a love-hate relationship with his younger adopted formerly evil brother Loki. Thor was dating the pretty brunette in the lab coat, Jesse or Jane, something along those lines, and her assistant Darcy, who had an odd passion for Tasers, was dating the brother, Loki. It seemed a bit incest-y somehow, but there were no more Chitauri in New York City, so everyone let it slide. Dr. Bruce Banner had come from an abusive home and had been recreating a version of the Super Soldier Serum that had turned the scrawny Brooklyn asthma-afflicted Steve in most of Bucky’s memories into the towering emblem of freedom, justice, and the American Way, when he’d developed his habit of turning bulletproof and green when angry. Everyone still seemed a bit touchy about that, particularly Natasha, except for Tony. Tony who liked to startle Bruce while he was working, poke him with pointy objects, and fist bump the Hulk after a good mission. Bucky wasn't sure if that was Tony being a good friend or possible suicidal tendencies, but it made a world of difference in Dr. Banner and the Other Guy. (And apparently he made good salsa). Steve was Steve, and Bucky had found relearning his childhood best friend was the worst sort of painful, because Steve remembered it all, and got this kicked puppy look when he referenced something Bucky couldn't even vaguely recall. Coney Island? A man named Dum-Dum? And who the Hell was Sarah Rogers? Answers were paid for with awkward silences, avoiding each other’s eyes, and a heartbroken Steve. It left Bucky frustrated and lashing out, head pounding with the ache to know who exactly Steve was referring to when he said “My Bucky”. Hell, he knew Sam Wilson better than Steve at this point, and if that didn’t just take the Shittiest-Best-Friend-Unfrozen-And-Back-From-The-Dead Cake, what did? 

But when people tried to describe Howard’s son to Bucky, they either ran out of words, paused a lot, or contradicted themselves. Tony Stark was unstable. He was a genius. He never stopped talking. He had issues with anxiety and flashbacks from Afghanistan and a few other dying-related incidences and tried to never reference them. He was the most self-obsessed man you’d ever meet. Out fighting with the Team, he was most likely to throw himself headfirst into a life threatening situation to save someone else. He was confident as hell. He had serious Daddy issues. He was a control freak. He was an alcoholic. He was allergic to human emotion. He built expensive one-of-a-kind technology for the team without being asked. He was the best at press conferences, He was miserable during press conferences. He was a jackass who liked to make people mad. He was hysterical. 

Bucky had finally given up and decided he’d just see for himself. And everything the people at SHIELD had muttered, that the Team had stumbled over, and Fury had snarled, was true. Tony Stark was a man of extremes given to moments of genuine kindness. Like resisting the urge to be a know-it-all and pick Bucky’s suit for him. Or talking him through a flashback without making a big deal about it. Like learning sign language so he could talk to a fashion designer comfortably. Bucky opened his mouth to express his gratitude, which in actuality would have been something along the lines of: “Nice…things, um, the suit is good. You know…” but there was a loud beep and all the lights suddenly shut down. He got up quietly and drew the Glock from his hip holster, enhanced eyes adjusting to the darkness relatively quickly. “Stark!” he hissed, unable to see the glow of the arc reactor anywhere in the little room. He heard the sound of a thick skull knocking against wood and muttered curses in Italian. Was someone robbing the store? He heard more voices, none of which sounded like Tony or the sharp faced woman from earlier, so he moved slowly, feeling ice prick at the back of his neck and crawl toward his eyeballs. The Programming, reaching for his conscious, trying to make him the Winter Soldier. He fought it back a bit, taking some of the calm detachment it offered but no more. Slinking through the hall, he watched the curtains flutter and saw the tall shape of Damino, hands held high. Fingers trying to move to say something. There was a wordless noise of pain, and the kind man fell, a slumped shadow on the floor. “Find it! We have forty-four seconds before Ryan pulls the van around,” a male tenor voice snapped, two pairs of combat boots pounding on the marble. Bucky debated rushing them, finding Tony, checking Damino, and hoping the gun fight was short. 

 

No, no. Too many unknown variables, too many vulnerabilities. He ducked into a small winding metal stairwell and moved gracefully up to the second floor. He hadn’t noticed it coming in because the rooms were wall to wall tinted glass looking down on the show floor, which was currently still dark. One of the intruders, most likely the one who’d given the orders, was dumb enough to be holding a flashlight, making himself the easiest target. “Amateurs,” Bucky muttered, annoyed and a touch insulted as he climbed onto a conference table and took up a sniper’s position. The glass complicated matters, but he still had no eyes on Tony and at least three hostiles in the building. The ice shiver in anticipation, digging into his grey matter and burning. This was not supposed to be a Mission with a body count, he reminded himself. These was an abortive crack of electricity, before the lights blasted on, ten times bright then before. Tony was huddled under the counter, and stood up triumphantly, holding a snarled mess of cables. The tenor voiced man barked an order, but Tony crossed two wires, holding another in his teeth, and red laser lights suddenly crisscrossed the room. There was another electric hiss and Tony threw a large red pump into the middle of the room. Briefly, Bucky stopped to note its partner sat next to Tony in a pile of shoes ripped from the walls, before there was a click and a BOOM that shook the glass. Tenor voice, with his close cut sandy hair meant to mimic military style, screeched and reared back, tripping into one of the red lasers, resulting in an ear piercing alert bell going off. Tony fumbled with something and the light bulbs burst next to one of the masked robbers, covering his face and hands with blood and hot glass as he screamed and dropped to his knees. Tony reached down to connect another two wires when a shot rang out. Bucky watched in terror, genuine terror like had hadn't felt in decades, ripped through him from toes to teeth and the ice took him whole, as the bullet slammed right into Tony’s chest, and with a gasp, the genius collapsed out of sight behind the desk, another prone form next to Damino. Bucky the man would have eliminated the last viable target and called an ambulance. But he wasn't Bucky the man right now, he was cold, he was ice. But the rage and terror burned hot, a strange alteration from when the Programming usually seized control. He dimly wondered if the rage and fear were a side effect of Bucky the man watching the hulking muscular figure in faded black paramilitary gear maim his friend, or if the Programming was just changing itself. There was time for philosophical debate later. A bullet cut through air and glass and struck the man’s wrist. He screamed, looked towards the hole in the glass but Bucky’s finger was in a tight grip on the trigger. Bullets sang through the air, hitting joints and soft spots even as he tried to run. Sliding off the desk the way he used to slide down burning cars, Bucky the machine walked to the window and jumped, landing on bent knee in front of the door in time to finally put a bullet between the man’s eyes. He walked, no, he strutted, over to the man whose face was a mess of torn black cloth and blood and shot him once. They were hired guns, no information could be gained from them. So he slid the gun, burning hot from use, back into it’s holster and flicked the knife out of it’s sheath, running it gently down the pallid man’s quivering face. A desk jockey, he noted, no real power or muscle to speak of. Bucky began considering where to start cutting when there was a cough and a “God I hate when people do that,” in Tony’s rasped voice. Bucky tightened his metal hand in the collar of the worthless sobbing mess and dragging him behind Bucky as he walked quickly to Tony. Tony who looked perfectly fine, though a bit winded, as he sat up catching his breath. He poked Damino whose head look like it had been slammed down on the counter top. Slowly the large man pushed himself up into a sitting position, rubbing his head with a wince, and slowly began to sign at Tony. “We’re all good Barnes,” Tony said finally, holding his jacket away from his shirt. The inside of the jacket was disfigured in a spot, bulging inward. Instead of fabric, it was smooth metal, Bucky realized. Tony had been wearing a bulletproofed suit jacket. “Told you,” the idiot said smugly, getting to his feet and turning to help Damino. “Man here makes the best kinds of suits.” 

Damino was all thank-yous as the police and paramedics arrived. Tony glared at anyone who tried to check him out, and Bucky was still dragging the freckle faced ‘evil mastermind’ behind him like a rag doll. Bucky switched hands, giving brief comments to the police who arrived, directing them to contact SHIELD, before firmly grabbing Tony with his metal hand and hauling them out to the car. Bucky produced zip ties from his duffle bag in the backseat, and for now the sandy haired man was tossed in the trunk while Bucky stole the driver’s seat, confused when Tony didn't fight him for it. It made more sense when Bucky, satisfied by his evasive driving, pulled into the parking lot of the nearest mall, somewhere in Long Island. Before he could pat Tony down for injuries, he cursed when he realized Tony was hiding his hands off to the side. Bucky summoned the darkest look of “For the Love of Christ what have you done to yourself NOW?!” that had filled Steve’s pre-serum days and leveled it at full force. Muttering and wincing, Tony held out his hands, palms up. There were oddly little singe and burn marks. “You almost electrocuted yourself rigging that damn trap, didn’t ya?” Bucky sighed and took them into his hands, both ignoring the thumping and muffled shouting from the trunk. Tony did glance at the duffle bag and distract him with “Is that a goddamn crossbow? Do you really honest to God have a crossbow in your purse? I offer you a new arm that fires heat seeking missiles and a disco ball, and you want to climb a goddamn tree and play Robin Hood with a goddamn crossbow. Are you sure you and Clint aren’t related?” Bucky pursed his lips to tell Tony the numerous benefits of a crossbow, thank you very much, when he realized the game and mock slapped Tony in the side of the head. “Hit the burned guy. What a gentleman you are,” Tony snarked as Bucky inspected Tony’s blistering fingers. “You are truly a dumbass, Stark,” Bucky grumbled as he moved to get out of the car. “C’mon, let’s go inside and find a First-Aid kit.” Tony got up, gingerly avoiding the use of his hands, and nodded to the trunk. “What about the guy you tossed in my trunk? And do you always carry zip ties?” Bucky grabbed Tony by the upper arm and dragged him forward toward the mob of preteens in short-shorts and band tee shirts. “Leave him for now, he has enough air, probably. And yes.” He glanced over his shoulder, and Tony gave him a wink. “Kinky”. 

It hadn't been more than ten steps into the mall before Bucky cursed again, in Russian, because there was a voice in his head that sounded suspiciously like Steve, and was shouting “There are children present! If your mother heard you talk like this, God rest her soul- THINK OF THE CHILDREN!” He stopped long enough to fish the list of Rules out of his pocket and scan it. He thought it was all in purple crayon, but there were some written in fine ink, thick pencil, swooping cursive, and block printed letters. Evidently everyone on the Team had lent a hand. Sure enough when his eyes landed on Rule One, he read it out loud with a groan. 

Rule One: Under no circumstances should Tony Stark be allowed to play with a store’s security system.

 

Bucky cursed again, a steel haired frowning nun walking past with a pretzel giving him a reproachful look, before Tony startled giggling and asking if they could stop by Build-a-Bear on the way out. “I hear you can make a Captain America bear now. We could name him Steve!” and like that the genius was gone in the crowd, half mad ideas in muttered gibberish Bucky’s only trail. He dragged his flesh hand across his face and started after him, knowing Tony would soon forget how badly burned his fingers were and would start using words that would make that nun think Bucky was a paragon of purity and sanctimonious speech. He faltered for a moment, recalling a moment from the suit store earlier, a strange story Natasha had told him about fighting a huge octopus or something, before charging forward and shouting for the first time since the Helicarrier: “HOW DID YOU MAKE THOSE HIGH HEELS EXPLODE?! ARE YOU CARRYING EXPLOSIVES!?! ARE YOU MAKING AN EXPLODING TEDDY BEAR FOR STEVE!?!”  
A small boy in overalls gave him a very judgmental look as Bucky ran past, imagining scenarios of naive Steve hugging the bear and dying in a fiery ball of doom, while Tony cackled and giggled nearby, putting the whole thing on TubeYou.

A manic laugh answered him, and Bucky leaped over a large koi pond in his effort to get to the large yellow store front full of plush animals. In his head, wHere the ice had long since defrosted, were images of Fury, poking the bear hesitantly and losing his other eye. Bruce Hulking out and smashing half of Brooklyn into dust. Natasha going on a rampage and single-handedly burning all the teddy bear manufacturers to death in their beds. Darcy using it as a taser. Loki cloning and disguising it as bed pillows. Thor wanting another one. Oh God. 

The angelic and disapproving Steve voice was back again saying in a sing-song voice: “And this, Bucky, is why we have Rules.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is kind of long, and the first official chapter! I can't tell if I like it or not, still trying to find my style, so feedback is desired and welcomed! Hope it didn't drag too long at the end.
> 
> And I may, or may not, be on possession of a Captain America Build-a-Bear.


	3. Pride and Prejudice, and Presents

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long wait! Thank you to all the amazing people who left comments! They were so encouraging and constructive and I have tried to improve this chapter! As always, I own nothing of marvel or there would be alot more of my ships becoming canon, and I apologize if Google Translate has lied to me. 
> 
> mudak = (in theory) Russian for asshole
> 
> "sookin syn" = (in theory) Russian for son of a bitch
> 
> Hope you enjoy!!!
> 
> Be happy!

Bucky hadn’t seen Tony inside of the Build-a-Bear, and had decided to go on the defensive. It was an obvious fact that Tony Stark was obsessively possessive and protective of the people in his life. Further analyzing might chalk that up to neglectful parents and no real relationships before Pepper and the team, but Bucky liked to leave the Freud stuff to the psychologists. Tony Stark cared, and almost no one but Bucky seemed to actually see it. To be perfectly fair, Tony was a fantastic actor. Brilliant even, but how anyone could live with him for more than a month and not realize just how thin the proverbial mental armor the engineer wore was beyond him. He’d heard Steve call Tony things like “heartless”, “soulless”, and “self-centered” when they fought.( Hell, a deaf guy in New Jersey could have heard those screaming matches.) Even Rhodes and Pepper made jokes about it. The only proof Tony Stark had a heart was the old version of the arc reactor that had kept his heart pumping. Bucky was trained to notice patterns, and one he constantly picked out was that people knocked Tony’s ego and lack of sincere emotions first.

It kind of pissed Bucky off, because when he looked at Tony at press conferences, being held solely responsible for property damages by the team, taking all the hits at once about every mistake the man had ever made, he saw something familiar. He saw that scrappy I-can-go-all-day, no-I’m-not-hurt-just-concussed-and-gutshot spirit that lived in the few gold memories of before the War when a sickly idiot was the focus of his life. How had Steve lived and worked with Tony and never seen it, that they both burned with the same violent veracity to Bucky. The underdog with a heart. One got big and brawny and carried a shield. The other built a wall of glass tumblers and iron suits till he looked bigger. Both stayed the same terrified brave little light.

He wasn’t the only one who noticed at least. Banner had this quiet devotion for Tony. Nothing romantic, but like a little brother with stars in his eyes. Tony had been the first one to see Bruce as brilliant and whole and unbroken. Had seen it before even Bruce himself. Even the Other Guy had a soft spot. His rumbling roar would come over the comms, asking where “Shiny Man” was, was Shiny Man okay? Bruce still got low sometimes, but now he had Tony to come flying in, exploding all his carefully maintained walls intended to distance people, set fire to all the doubt and shame, and in extreme cases, throw a truly alarming number of berries at him every time he said something negative. 

“Tony, I’m a monst-“ Plop. And Bruce would have to stop and chew on the blueberry so he didn’t choke.

“I’m unstable, dange-“  
Plop.  
Chew.  
Swallow.

“I’m a threat to the team and all-“  
Plop.  
Chew.  
Swallow.

“I’m ser-“  
Plop.  
Chew.  
Swallow.

“Tony-“  
Plop.  
Chew.  
Swallow.

He kept going until Bruce gave up with a laugh and grabbed a handful of berries for himself, not entirely okay, but better. He didn't say much, but that smile, the silent laughter at Tony’s stupidest jokes, it was all there. Tony defended Bruce, loudly, publicly. He went on TV and told everyone about Bruce’s amazing cookies and Hulk slippers. Self-depreciating comment about himself, a cute story about Bruce, another we-all-know-I’m-a-drunk-mess joke, a story about Hulk saving a school bus. Currently the Hulk was the third most popular Avenger, below only Steve and Tony. Darcy Lewis had something called a ‘fandom’ though Bucky wasn’t entirely sure what that meant. 

Loki and Tony had gotten spectacularly drunk on Loki’s “ice wine” from Asgard and bonded over shitty fathers and bad childhoods surrounded by wealth and that creeping hollow feeling that sank its claws into them some days. They still teased each other relentlessly and insulted each other regularly, but Tony always made sure Thor eased off on his brother, and made Loki a two sided blade that had lasers to cut down foes twice as fast. And if he offered to make Loki synthetic skin when the Asgardian glamour faded, and complemented his blue skin, well who but Bucky watching silently from camera would know. 

Natasha had some odd terrifying friendship with Stark that even Bucky wasn't dumb enough to spy on. But it was there, in small comments mixed with threats of violence. Her silent loyalty. The particular ferocity with which she had attacked the AIM cronies who had come closer than most to successfully killing Tony Stark. The way Tony erased all records of her time with the KGB and previous SHEILD missions, so no one could black mail her. The one time Bucky had been inside her suite, he’d seen that Tony had designed it full of warm colors, soft useless things, and potted plants next to soft billowing curtains. It was the antithesis of what one would expect for the living quarters of a lethal spy, particularly one who admitted she enjoyed painting her nails with snake venom sometimes. 

“You know if you tell Tony that this isn’t your style, he could change this up so it suits you better.” 

She had given him a flinty glare and gracefully collapsed into her huge fluffy brown couch. 

“I am perfectly content. Mind your own business.”

When Medical tried to drag her to get checked up on, Stark had shoved them aside and told him he’d handle it. And on holidays, a vase of roses appeared for Natasha, with no sender’s name. For Christmas, tickets to the Russian ballet. 

Clint was an asshole. But he had his own prickly issues, which Tony helpfully told him to get over. While Steve wanted to talk about everything, Tony embraced the idea of destruction to sooth a bitter soul. And if Clint did want to talk, Tony listened. But he never made him. He just handed him another exploding arrow to test. Tony lent him a car for a midnight ride. He altered the ceilings so Clint could hang or sit on most of them and gave Clint the penthouse for his “height-issue-complex-thing”. Bucky also noticed the vents had been widened with improved oxygen flowing through them. It made it hard to believe Tony when he claimed he couldn't stand all the super-spy-stalking. Clint in response kept a particular eye on Tony during missions. He would swoop down to check Tony’s pupils and heart rate after a battle, bitched at him till Tony agreed to eat something. He teased and tormented Stark, but when Fury suggested permanently benching him, Clint threatened to quit. He defended Stark and every time they had to watch Tony go out there and yet mobbed and insulted by reporters, listen to them call him “Merchant of Death”, “lying corrupt business man”, and just plain old “murderous son-of-a-bitch”, Tony always came home to arrow holes in the wall next to the TV. 

But the others seemed to resist. Tony didn't care. He thought of no one of himself. He was incapable of relationships, evidenced by his break up with Pepper Potts almost two years before. He was a useful jackass, no more, no less. He would never make the sacrifice play. He would never save anyone. 

 

“There you are, Robocop!”

Tony was out of breath, hand on the arc reactor under his shirt. Bucky glanced up from his rocking chair, feigning disinterest as he folded the corner of his paperback and set it down on the shelf with its brothers. “Here I am.” Stark rolled his eyes and fell down into a bean bag chair, admiring the bookstore they were in. 

“I should have checked here at the beginning. I looked at the Disney store first,” Tony muttered between sucking in lungful of air. “Are…are you reading Pride and Prejudice?” 

Bucky flipped the book over, pretending to be startled. “Imagine that! Me enjoying a book without murder and mayhem because I’m a multifaceted human being!” 

Tony chose not to rise to the bait, rolling his eyes again and poking Bucky harshly in the leg. “Not what I meant One Armed Bandit. I’m surprised because when we watched Pride and Prejudice last week, you told everyone it was a prissy girl movie and wanted to kill Mr. Darcy for the first half of the movie. I didn’t think you liked the story or I’d have told you we have a copy in the library back home.” 

Well then. Bucky internally winced, feeling bad that he fell into the trap of thinking Tony saw nothing. Hadn’t he just been muttering a monologue about this? It was how he’d set his trap for Stark. If Bucky disappeared to some other part of the mall and stayed gone for too long, Tony would get worried and come looking for him. Like a child playing Hide and Seek who never got found. But that course of thinking led to thoughts of Howard and his less than stellar parenting skills.

“Never liked that guy,” Bucky grumbled out loud, flexing his metal fingers on his knee. Tony rolled his eyes again, he did that a lot lately, and jumped up, grabbing the book and walking to the register.

“I know, but Darcy gets better remember? Elizabeth kicks his ass into shape.” 

Bucky pulls himself up slowly, like he’s just Bucky the man, not Bucky the machine, he walks over without rush and glances down at the other bags attached to Tony’s arms like bulky misshapen wings. 

“What’s all that?”

Tony shoved a warm pretzel into his hands and marched out of the store.

“Things. Important things. For reasons. And science.”

Bucky tried to twist around and check what kind of boxes there were, but thankfully there was nothing marked “Build –A-Bear”. 

“Fine. Let’s go get the mudak out of your trunk so we have room for your impromptu shopping spree.” Tony said nothing in reply, but he did fall in step by step with Bucky and move toward the doors. The Winter Soldier was whispering something, but Bucky strained not to hear. The shivering whisper grew more insistent. Demanding. Finally he put his hand on Tony’s shoulder in a loose grip and halted. He gave in for a second, but shockingly, the Winter Soldier didn’t try to take control. He just snarled a reminder and crawled like an animal back to the numb cage in the back of Bucky’s brain. 

With a huff to cover his surprise, Bucky turned on his heel and pushed Tony into a single bathroom, barking “Stay”, before marching out again. He knew Tony would attempt escape only if to be contrary, but he would be hindered by all those bags. On the second floor, Bucky was able to buy a first aid kit. When he made it back to the single restroom, Tony was rigging the hinges to make the door fall open. Bucky set his prize on the counter and hooked his hands under Tony’s shoulders, lifting him like a child despite his sputtering curses, and depositing him on the counter next to the sink.

“I’m fine. I have a battery in my chest. Electricity, kind of my thing.”

Bucky ignored him and opened the snap on the shiny white case. There was a helpful pamphlet inside, listing how to treat all kinds of injuries. He set about unrolling gauze and soaking it, ripping the frustrating tops off the burn cream packets and smearing the thick yellow paste over Tony’s fingers. He winced and tried to tug away, but Bucky held his wrists firmly with his mechanical arm, thoroughly but gently applying it all over his hands. He wrapped the damp gauze tight, going a touch over board and wrapping his whole hands down to the wrist, just to be safe. Bucky turned and washed his hands, glancing at the papers again.

“Can cause cardiac issues. Is there a way to check how your chest candle is doin’ out here?” Tony shook his head, quietly looking at his bandaged hands with a kind of sadness. Bucky wondered how long it had been since someone patched Tony up. Tony pulled Bucky’s arm close, and plucked a couple shards of glass from his upper arm from jumping through the window. He moved fluidly, the moment he tugged the large splinters loose, antibacterial cream and a small bandage were securely in place. Tony had fixed Bucky’s arm plenty of times. He’d built dozens of new versions, all as fantastic as a young man before wartime had envisioned the future to be. But Tony had never had much to do with the flesh and blood counterpart.

In a bizarrely comfortable silence, they fixed each other up. Bucky pressed his palm to the curve of Tony’s throat and checked that his heartbeat wasn’t too out of whack, while Tony poked and prodded, checking rudimentary on gears and wires, gently nudging them back into place. 

Bucky hadn't felt this at ease with himself and his new life at all. It was just as jarring and painful as waking up from cryo. He was still separating the Winter Soldier from Bucky, still deciding what kind of man he wanted to be. If he wanted to live. But strange little moments like this, small kindnesses foreign to both parties, made him curious enough to stick around. 

“I was fine you know,” Tony muttered, ruefully at last. Steve would inform Tony the damage of electrical burns often affected nerves, deep into the tissue. But Bucky just shook his head and said “Don’t wanna risk it.” Instead of sparking an argument, it made Tony a bit soft in the eyes. “Yeah. Whatever,” Tony muttered, washing off his hands and tossing the bags at Bucky to carry. 

“Let’s go get the asshole out of my trunk.” 

 

In the back parking lot, Bucky yanked the terrified man out of the car and tossed the bags in haphazardly, slamming it shut as Tony came around to lean on it, looking for all the world like he spent all his free time hanging around mall parking lot interrogating assassins. 

“Fuck you Stark!” the desk jockey spat, earning him an unimpressed snort.

“Not even in your dreams, I do have some standards.”

“You’re gonna regret not just coming quietly!” 

“When was that an option? You jumped right into gun waving and head smashing. I still wouldn’t have gotten in your tacky white van, but still. Very rude. Don’t you think?”

“We weren’t the only ones hired to do the job. You are so fucked.”

Tony crossed his arms loosely and looked behind the man at Bucky. “What is this guy, a tabloid reporter? Everyone is fixated on my sex life. You’d think I had nothing to do with saving the world, repeatedly. No, no ingenious technology, no lifesaving medical advances. Just Hugh Heffner with a goatee.” 

Bucky grinned, small and sharp. “I like the goatee. Makes you look kinda evil.”

Tony stroked his chin. “Better than when Pep told me I looked like Satan. To be fair, I had been surrounded by a cloud of smoke and the fiery husk of what had once been the toaster at the time.”

“And that’s why you aren’t allowed to cook any…” Bucky shifted the half cursing, half weeping man to his other hand and unfolded the crumpled list of rules. “….Sookin syn!”

“Bless you.”

Bucky shook his prisoner, eyes going sharp and flat. The man blubbered, all his false bravado vanishing in the face of Bucky’s frustration. He debated just snapping his neck. It would only take a pound or so of pressure, just a quick flick of the wrist. 

Tony whistled, waiting till he had all of Bucky’s attention. “Down boy. Set the nice asshat on the ground and use your words.” He let the man crumble into a ball on the pavement, but pressed a large well-worn combat boot firmly on the groveling man’s back to pin him down. Bucky glared at Steve’s firm slightly slanted penmanship, all small capitals that spelled out rule two:

 

RULE TWO: ABSOLUTELY NO KIDNAPPING OF ANYONE AND/OR UNOFFICIAL INTERROGATIONS. (NO EXCEPTIONS!)

 

“Two rules! I broke two rules because of you, you-“ Bucky inhaled sharply and switched to Russian, pressing harder on the man who…yes, who had peed himself. Disgusting.  
Tony was laughing, head thrown back, when “Secret Agent Man” began playing from the front seat of the car. He fished around in the glove compartment and pulled out a Starkphone. 

“Sean of the Dead, I’m kind of busy can it wait?” 

“No, Mr. Stark, it cannot,” came the ever patient but strictly disapproving voice of Phil Coulson. Bucky didn’t like Phil Coulson. He reminded Bucky of handlers, leashes, cold metal and emotionless faces. Black sunglasses. Suits, walking alongside him. Holding him down, why where they holding him down? Oh God, God why were they-

“-under control, Phil. I hate to leave you hanging but Bucky and I have errands to run.”

“Stark!”

“Buh-bye!”

The hand on Bucky’s arm tightened and relaxed, not a hold or a cage, but a warm reminder of where he was and that he wasn’t alone. “Stupid rules aside, SHEILD is coming to pick up Short, Bleach Blond, and Ugly over here, and they want us for questioning. I personally have filled my quota of giving Fury an aneurysm this week, and I do so love to make that large vein in his head throb, really I do, but we have plans. So do something to secure this guy and let’s rock and roll.”

Tony dismissed him with a wave and climbed into the driver’s seat. Bucky joined him a few minutes later, feeling significantly less stressed about the bad start to his Tony babysitting. On a telephone pole nearby, not quite at the top but close, the would be assassin had been lassoed, with a makeshift cardboard sign around his next saying: 

“TO: COULSON, FROM: BARNES” 

Before he’d hooked it around the idiot’s neck, Tony had ambled over and drawn a big cartoonish heart. He was now hunched over his phone on “Twitter” or something. “And to think everyone thought you’d forgotten tomorrow was Phil’s birthday,” Tony remarked when Bucky got in. 

“What do we have to get now?” 

The engine rumbled then purred as Tony deliberated. “We need mollusks, forty pounds of nitroglycerin, an airplane’s navigational system, two yards of ribbon, and a loaf of bread.” 

This, Bucky decided as they shot out of the parking lot before SHEILD could arrive, was going to be a very long day.


	4. Sam Wilson Knows His Supersoldier

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Time to start involving the rest of the team! Steve/Sam moments in this one, little bit of fluff. Thank you again for all the amazing encouragement! 
> 
> Stay happy.
> 
> \------

Steve rolled over, trying to silence whatever the source of the buzzing was. His alarm clock played smooth jazz, so the hellish electric rumbling couldn’t be that. He knocked over a lamp, the previously mentioned alarm clock, two picture frames, and was almost the death of a glass of water before fingers tapped him on the ribs and Sam handed him Steve’s phone. 

 

“S’rry” Steve mumbled, patting Sam’s head absently. He was rewarded with Sam grumbling threats to his manhood and rolling over, taking most of the comforter with him vindictively.

“Rogers here.”

“Captain, we have a situation.” 

No matter how many times Steve had asked Phil to call him by his first name, it never seemed to work. While Tony’s not-so-secret previous hero worship for the Star Spangled Man With A Plan had curdled and gone bitter into something toxic, Phil’s just seemed to get ten times as intense. Steve almost preferred Tony’s cynicism to Phil’s unadulterated admiration. He had cursed in front of the agent once and Steve though Phil was going to burst into tears.  
Normally Steve would be on alert at that statement. Mission go, uniform on, shield in hand, headed to his motorcycle. But he and Sam had just gotten in from a ‘situation’ in Pakistan less than two hours ago. 

“Can someone else take this one?”

“Negative. Romanov and Barton are wrapping up a situation in northern Canada and are still undercover. Doctor Banner is testing a new sedative to calm down the Hulk and is currently unconscious on my office floor. Thor and Loki had to return to Asgard to formalize an agreement with a small aggressive species of people who apparently wanted to invade Earth to secure a supply of human femurs for reasons as of yet unknown. And I have no idea where Barnes and Stark are at the moment, but I’m in the process of cutting down the birthday present they tied to a telephone pole for me.” 

Processing. Processing. Processing. 

“Why did they leave your birthday present on a telephone pole?” Steve was genuinely a bit confused at that. Stark made a big deal about birthdays, and had already planned a surprise party for Coulson on the day of his actual birthday. At least he hoped that's why Stark had ordered so many balloons, patriotic colored cake, and an ice sculpture of Steve's shield. 

“I say ‘present’ sarcastically. Apparently several armed assassins attempted to kidnap Stark while he ordered a new suit. Barnes eliminated all but one, interrogated him, and left him tied to a telephone in a mall parking lot in Long Island. They’ve gone off the grid, so presumably Stark is done ignoring the tracker we clipped to his car last week.”

Processing.  
Processing.  
Compute. 

“Assassins…kidnapping…interrogations…”

Sam rolled back over and sighed, getting up to stretch and redress in his uniform. “Five…four…three….two…” he mumbled to himself, fishing for his goggles at the foot of the bed somewhere. Steve and he had stumbled in, too exhausted for more than a chaste kiss goodnight, haphazard undressing, and sleep. He was paying the price now, where were those damn goggles? 

“One.”

“What the HELL do you mean they were attacked by ASSASINS? Why am I only hearing about this NOW?! Where were they last?! And when did I give permission for you to put a tracker on Stark?! In fact, I recall telling you not to, because it would just piss him off and making him build particularly explosive nonsense! Why was I not informed earlier?! Who’s after Stark?! Are they after Stark? Or are they after Bucky?!”

As he snarled into his Starkphone, Steve was hopping around the room, pulling his clothes and boots back on. He paused to toss Sam his goggles and pull his cowl down. 

“You were on call on a mission of your own, we thought the situation was under control. And that’s not where you’re headed now. We need you to come meet with the new Security Counsel. They’re have been motions that control of the Avengers should shift out of SHEILD. That cannot happen.” 

“Damn it Phil! Find them!” 

Steve ended the call with a particularly violent jab of his finger and turned to Sam, rolling with tension and anger. Sam finished adjusting his wings, flexing and twisting. He turned and placed a firm hand on Steve’s shoulder.

“Hey. Hey. Listen to me.”

His thumb moved in small smoothing circles as he spoke. “We’re gonna go impress those Security Counsel assholes. Then we’re gonna gather the team. And then we’re gonna get our Russian assassin and our asshole genius back, safe and in one piece in time for dinner. Okay? You with me?”

Steve’s breathing evened and some of the tension drained out, leaving him not quite relaxed, but not about to behead the first person to look at him funny either. 

“Yeah, yeah I’m with you.”

A gloved hand came up to tug Sam into his chest, less a romantic gesture and more a strong man seeking comfort wordlessly. Sam gave him a peck on the cheek and nodded to the piece of window that JARVIS had slid open for them. With a reckless grin, Steve stepped back and ran at the edge, throwing himself into the air. 

There were a few moments of free falling pleasure pain. Nothing was certain but gravity. It was an adrenaline rush Steve had never been able to find a match for. His fall was jerked to a stop with a harsh grip on both shoulders, leather and skin biting into the uniform over Steve’s shoulders as the wings flexed, the jets screamed, throwing twin streams of heat and fire that propelled both Captain America and the Falcon back into the sky, cruising along the city skyline. 

“Why must you do that? I know you are all ‘rioded up but damn man, I like that pretty face, don’t go ruining it for me!”

Steve let out a wild laugh and reached up, planting a firm kiss on Sam’s neck before turning back to the grey and concrete sprawl of the city he loved. He thought about a conversation with Fury before the Avengers, about change and surprises. It rang true, as Sam, his Sam, corkscrewed through a cloud, just to hear Steve’s laugh, before putting them back on course to the New York office of SHEILD.


	5. Bear Skin Rugs and a Bet

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again I own nothing. Nada, zip, zilch. Time to expand so more friends get to join the fun! Thank you again to my amazing readers and wonderful commentors! Stay Happy<3

“It’s going in my room.”

“The hell it is! I shot it!” 

“Excessively so. But it’s mine and it’s going in my room.”

“Tasha I-“

“You can have it. I can always smother you and remove it later.” 

There was a beat of silence when Clint opened his mouth to reply when “Men in Black” rang from his pocket. Natasha fluidly slid over, nudging him aside as she took the wheel of the jeep so he could answer the phone. 

“Hey Phil. I did the thing and killed the guy. Well Natasha killed the guy. A lot of guys actually. But we got the account numbers and the security passcode for the thing we aren’t supposed to know about yet in Alaska. And Natasha got a bear rug, even though she fucked up my hearing aids. Where’s Stark? I need him to fix them. I could ask someone else but Stark gets twitchy when other people fiddle with his tech.”

“How many people died?”

Clint paused and looked over at Natasha. She shrugged. 

“Um. More than Paris, less then Istanbul.”

“I can work with that. When you get to SHEILD drop the files with Barrowman and gear up. Unknown hostiles after Barnes and Stark, who have both gone off the grid.”

“Is Steve going into cardiac arrest?” 

In the background, Natasha heard someone burst in Clint’s office. 

“Have you found them yet?” Steve demanded, a gloved hand hitting the desk.

There was another click as someone else stepped in, no doubt Sam. 

“Please step over Doctor Banner. I’m sure he’ll be joining us at some point and I’d prefer he not destroy my office because you kicked him awake Captain.”

“Answer the question Phil. Do we have coordinates on Bucky and Stark?”

“You clearly underestimate Stark. He once sabotaged four SHEILD jets when I left him alone in the hanger for four minutes with a few paper clips. We've got agents out looking for them but the focus should be on the people after them.”

“Tasha and I are about thirty minutes out if we sort of obey the speed limit. And Loki apparently put the leader of the angry femur midgets in a choke-hold so peace talks sped up and he and Thor are due back sooner rather than later. Don’t go rushing off without the team Cap.”

Silence. 

Natasha decided sort of obeying the speed limit wasn’t going to cut it and floored it, just as precise as before but currently racing past the other cars on the road. She carefully moved in front of a Hummer and a Toyota, nearly scratching the paint when Steve finally mutter a terse “Fine,” and there was a harsh thump. 

“Whuh? Sam? Steve? What are you doing in the lab?....Coulson! The sedative works.”

There was a touch of wry amusement in Coulson’s voice when he apparently helped Bruce up. “Yes Doctor Banner, I figured that out when you acting as a living throw rug in front of my desk for four and half hours.”

Sam spoke up, sounded world weary and confused, “Since when do the Norse Gods text, how did this particular snarky Norse god get my number, and why do I have a multimedia message of an angry munchkin chewing on Thor’s thigh like a drumstick?”

“I got that too. It says uh…where are my glasses? Thanks. It says ‘Negotiations have broken down. Decided to kill them all instead. Will be back tonight. I expect chicken wings as recompense.’” 

“Thor likes Chicken Wings?” Sam said slowly, as everyone involved pictured the blond giant electrocuting live chickens and eating them whole. 

“No,” Bruce corrected, still sounding groggy, “Loki does. Teriyaki flavor and he wants onion rings.” 

Phil sighed heavily while Clint made a negating hand gesture, desperately signing that if Natasha followed through with her plan to just drive off the lower part of the bridge to cut their time in half, he’d strangle her. 

“We will continue looking for Barnes and Stark. I will have someone order wings for the Norse gods. Natasha don’t kill Clint, Clint put your old hearing aids in. Bruce got get some coffee and Captain go talk to Andrea in Surveillance about what we know about our arch-nemesis of the week. And Sam, if you could keep the Captain from scaring the freedom out of SHEILD employees, that’d be lovely.” 

Clint disconnected the call and cursed while looking for his old hearing aids in his duffle bag. “You think Stark and Barnes got to a safe house?” he muttered around an ammo clip in between his teeth while he tossed duct tape and clean pairs of socks behind him in his haste.

Natasha considered the question. “Knowing Stark they’re probably both in some high tech bunker sixty feet underground. Or somewhere stupidly obvious.” 

\-----

“Stark, do you want wheat bread or white?”

“Neither! French bread, from the clear plastic shelf-y things in the bag. And be careful the water from the mollusks are getting everywhere. I can literally see a trail of water behind your cart.”

“Stop being a dick and move the ribbon over unless you want it ruined.”

“So freakin’ whiny. There, it’s moved. Go get the bread, I don’t like leaving nitroglycerin in the trunk in the heat. It’s cost me a sweet Mustang with creamy leather seats in the past.” 

“You could have said that before, asshole! And what about the navigational equipment?” 

“Leave that to me, that’s going to be a second stop unless you know many people who keep their airplanes parked in King Shopper Stores?”

“Enough sass. And no gummy worms!”

“Whatever, MOM!”

\-----

“Clint?” 

“…Yeah Tash?” 

“Twenty bucks they’re somewhere stupid.”

“Deal”.


	6. Why Clint Acts Like a Momma Bird Which is Entirely Untrue Shut Up Stark and Buy me Nutella While Your Out

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Midterms week! Bleh! Anywho here's a little jump backwards, to lay the foundation for Clint and Tony's relationship and Clint's hearing loss. I own no characters, nothing, nada, zip. But God bless marvel. Anyway!

Clint can’t really remember the mission. He knows it was somewhere in the desert, but there’s a lot of deserts in this world. He can recall the feeling of grainy sand caught in the leather of his arm guard and gloves, the sting of the wind on his face, and the unbearable heat beating down from a pale sky. Natasha was posing as a prostitute, hair dyed black and contacts to make her eyes green, bright angry green. She was wearing a lot of gold and jewels but not a lot of clothes, and he can remember that it made him angry. It made him angry and skilled and intelligent agent and friend’s only choice for a cover was a whore. She could have dressed like an ordinary woman of the area, but no, someone higher up decided she was beautiful and they wanted to see her like that. It didn't bother Tasha, for reasons he preferred not to dwell on. But it bothered him, watching her play dumb when she was the cleverest person he knew. He wondered if he had made a mistake, bringing her to SHIELD. Where they going to use the mind and skills behind that pretty face? Clint had come to value her more for her honesty and small spontaneous kindness than for the sharp chin and wild red hair everyone else saw first. He liked her voice, clipped calm and cool. No matter what language, that always stayed consistent and it was a comfort to heart over the comms. He remembers poison in a ring, all old fashioned murder style, and a not so old fashioned disc to be stolen. He can remember jumping from rooftop to rooftop, boots sticking solidly on the square dusty roof as he launched himself through the night air, bow strung. He can remember laughing into the comms, and Natasha laughing back, and the thunk of an arrow hitting it’s mark. He can remember the SHEILD helicopter, Coulson in his black suit, waiting off in the distance for them, he can remember giving Natasha his coat and rolls his eyes claiming he didn’t want her to distract the pilot and crash them into a mountain. He can remember her tossing the package at him playfully, demanding he carry it. He can remember the rough drag of canvas fabric against the underside of his arm as he tucked it into his side and walked closer and closer to the helicopter. He can remember the soft whistle of the wind, and a soft almost inaudible tick. 

The next part get even fuzzier. He throws the box wrapped in canvas far away, and yells for Natasha to run. She gets a bit ahead of him before it blows, a flaming cloud of death and smoke and pain that throws him off his feet, his ears ringing wildly, and Natasha screaming his name. He knows, distantly, that it must be bad if Natasha is screaming. Her training taught her never to scream someone’s name like that, because they are probably dead. It warms him, metaphorically, that he means enough to her that she screams his name through the smoke and the ringing and the fire and sand until everything goes numb and black. 

At least, he thinks, at least no one important got hurt. 

He wakes up three weeks later in a SHEILD hospital room. Natasha’s feet are on his bed, and she’s watching him like a hawk, pun very much intended, from an uncomfortable paisley chair. Her hair is red again, long and braided back loosely. Her contacts are gone, and he’s glad because he missed her sharp eyes and meaningful glances. She nudges his ankle and her lips move but he doesn't hear anything. She says something else, looking for an answer, but he’s still grappling with the fact she’s not making any noise. He moves his head around, noticing machines, and birds, but everything is silent. It’s terrifying and cold and he wants to scream, but can he even scream? He tries to feel his ears, are they even there, and Natasha takes his wrists in a firm grip and holds them, mouthing or saying, or shouting something over her shoulder. A nurses comes in and sedates him and he realizes through the haze that he was in fact screaming, and all he sees before the colors bleeds away to match the void were commonplace noises where, is the absolutely terrified look that flashes over Natasha’s face, and the warmth of her hand on his wrists as he goes to some soft place in his head. 

80% total hearing loss. The explosion of the bomb broke four of his ribs, gave him a concussion, a nasty scar on his thigh, and almost total hearing loss. Coulson comes in with some hearing aids for him to try on, and Clint hates that everything is so subtly intrinsically different. He’d almost prefer total deafness to the plastic ringing of the hearing aids. 

He hates the stares when he wears them, and the whispers he can somewhat catch as he walks by. Natasha never says a thing, for which he’s grateful, and Coulson personally makes four agents cry when he hears their trash talk. Clint hates being the freak again. Then one day Tony Stark, asshole, billionaire, and Iron Man waltzes in to yell at Fury for stealing his technology. They dig and snap and snarl, and eventually on his way out, having successfully brought Fury to near aneurysm, Stark notices Clint leaning on a wall outside Phil’s office. Stark flicks his sunglasses lower on his nose and tucks a hand in his Armani suit pocket, eyeing the hearing aids critically. “Those absolutely suck. I bet they tune out half the time, get ruined in the shower, and everyone stares.” Clint crosses his arms and glares right back. “You mean like you?” Stark just rolls his eyes and waltzes out to his shiny red sportscar. But when he comes back the next week to bitch about more stolen tech, he stops to talk to Phil before he leaves, and he suspiciously avoids Barton when he walks to the elevator this time. “Feels sheepish for being a dick about my hearing aids. What a cliche.” Natasha rolls her eyes over the page of her magazine and Coulson ends up needing to see Clint, so he just stows away his annoyance. 

That annoyance quickly turns to shock. Sitting on Phil’s desk is a pair of the tiniest, most sleek looking hearing aids Clint has ever seen. “Stark says they are bulletproof, waterproof, radiation proof, untraceable except by his personal server, give no heat signature, no interference, and turn off by touching the centers twice. They are prototypes and custom fit to your specific ears.” When Clint just stares at them, Coulson carefully scoops up the hearing aids and walks around his desk, placing them in Barton’s laxly cupped hands. “I am strictly prohibited from telling you Stark stayed up for four nights in a row to make these, or that he’s only made them for you. I am also not to tell you he’s put a Stark life time free warrantee on them, or that he knows what it is to be stared at in a not-good way, and hated it. I am absolutely forbidden from sharing that he hates seeing people deal with anything he perceives himself as being able to fix, and doesn’t deserve gratitude for it, because it’s just his job.” Coulson gave Clint a small, winning smile. “I should also mention Mr. Stark learned sign language immediately after constructing these, and thus knows you called him a dick as he left. That will be all.”  
Clint popped his hearing aids in, turned them on, and could have cried. Everything was enhanced and clear and perfect. Better than his original hearing. It was like having an epiphany. Natasha could tell, when he collapsed into the chair next to her with shaky legs. “So Stark built you one of a kind hearing aids, and learned sign language for you in case they break. Maybe he’s not a complete dick,” she offered, in what appeared to be a disaffected voice. Clint knew that was just her processing voice,that she was filing away that information and whatever its possible implications were, for later use and analysis. 

And if, once the Avengers were formed, defeated Loki, and moved into Avengers Tower, Clint kept a quiet eye on Stark’s health and sleep habits, made sure he wasn't too banged up after a battle, and made him see Bruce if he was, well, then who was to say. 

(Except for Barnes. Clint had a weird feeling that dude had them all on surveillance.)


	7. Catching You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always I own nothing. Hope you enjoy! Another update soon to follow, with a little look into the relationship between Natasha and Tony.

“Can you just…take that?” Bucky asked always nervously, fingers both metal and flesh tapping a rhythm on his folded arms. Tony rolled his eyes, though the gesture went unseen as he was shoulders deep in the guts of a fighter jet, tangled deliberately among yellow, green, and blue wires and familiar motionless metal gears. His fingers still ached a bit from the whole electrocution thing, and his winced when a wire sparked against his skin when he disconnected it. “Are you alright in there?” Tony rolled his eyes again, unable to answer with a screwdriver between his teeth, but he made a negating, “I’m fine” sound. “No you ain’t. I saw that little twitch. Are you electrocuting yourself again, Frankenstein?” Tony hissed when something pointy caught and dragged on the skin on his neck, leaving a mark like someone had drawn a red pen over it, the slightest bit of blood trickling down to stain the collar of her shirt.

“You’re bleeding. Enough. Enough, come out of there.” Tony rolled his eyes and kept working, letting out an undignified “Eeep!” as broad hands gripped him by the hips and dragged him out of the guts of the plane. Bucky set him down and began muttering insults as he checked Tony’s neck and hands, shepherding him toward the car. “Hey! Hey! Wait, we need the navigational equipment. Bucky nudged him backward into shot gun and tossed the first aid kit into the front seat before stalking back to the plane, poking his head in briefly and reaching up, ripping something down with sheer brute force using his metallic arm. Proudly he carried it swinging in his fist back to the car and threw it in the trunk, before smearing antibacterial cream across his neck and littering the long slender cut with bandages, and double checking the gauze and bandaging on his hands. Tony whined and moaned the whole time and Bucky not so politely ignored him. 

Some days Bucky woke up not knowing what he was. What qualities and characteristics belong to the Winter Solider, and which to Bucky Barnes. He was fairly certain that over protective, almost motherly desire was Bucky’s. An instinct from years with a best friend ho constantly tittered on the brink of death from illness, or cold, or drunk in an alley. He thought Bucky might have a short temper, but the Winter Soldier was patient, patient and cold. Was the fear of falling Bucky’s, a residue from his crushing fall from the moving train into HYDRA’s waiting arms, or if it was the logical conclusion of the Winter Solider that falling could mean death? Was his skill with new languages a knack Bucky had always carried, or part of his Programming? Was his love of Russian music Bucky’s of the Soldier’s? What his fondness for grape flavored candy Bucky’s or the Soldier’s? Was his skill with a gun Bucky’s, the Soldier’s, or both?

Those questions hung in the forefront of his mind, a massive tangled knot made up of endlessly smaller knots until he was certain he’d never get them all straight. Looking at Tony know, one of those little threads, maybe something shiny and red, seemed to loosed and fall away till Bucky’s fingers could straighten it. Bucky and the Soldier wanted to protect. Bucky and the Soldier wanted to protect Tony. Bucky saw a friend, a complete moron full of the most unexpected kindness, from creating a comfortable leather chair in which Bucky sat when his arm was being worked on, to prevent flashbacks. Knowing that bulletproof futuristic armor had his back in battle. Feeling the weighed warmth of brown eyes, calculating and compassionate, scientist and friend. Morning spent watching stupid movies because neither could sleep. Night spent playing checkers and listing things they didn’t love anymore. 

A red plastic ridged piece sliding forward. “Wearing face masks”. A black plastic ridged piece moving slightly to the left. “Standing water, and sometimes the shower.” Red chip taking black chip. “Feeling cold.” Black chip moving to finish a trap. “Sand and saves.” Red chip dodging trap. “Pierogi and vodka.” Black chip moving to cut him off. “People touching the ark reactor.” Red chip taking another black chip. “Steve showing me old pictures.” Black chip swooping in to take two black chips. “Pepper saying ‘oh Tony’”. Red chip moving off to the side. “Knowing your Dad was a dick to you all your childhood.” Pause. Black chip takes red. “Knowing you still blame yourself for their death.” Pause. Shaking fingers nudge a red chip to take a black. “Knowing you still hate yourself and don’t feel like part of the team.” 

Pieces moved fast now, with hasty angry energy. “Knowing Steve finally doesn’t feel alone because of you, even without you knowing about growing up together, because you’re a soldier like him.” Black to red. “Seeing your fake expressions.” Black to red. “Not being able to help you. Fix you,” Tony voice was raw. Bucky didn’t take offense like he would have if anyone else had said it. It was just Tony, the tinkerer, the engineer. He fixed things. He fixed everyone and everything. Being helpless pissed him off and terrified him all at once. “You help by treating me like a human being.” The few pieces still on the board sat motionless. Slowly brown eyes met blue and there was an understanding. 

You can fall. 

Because I will catch you. 

And now, Bucky could only admire the strange man who managed to untangle those threads with his deft fingers that polished the shield, tuned the tiny hydraulic pistons of his arm, slimmed an arrow to perfection, and kept his own heart beating with that glowing blue light. Hands that gripped Bruce tight so he couldn’t run away. Hands that couldn’t cook to save his damn life, despite promises “cooking is just like science! And I’m great at silence!” 

Bucky knew he had a family here, with these broken weapons in their glass house.

But he thought he might have a little something more with Tony.


	8. Tony Stark is a Generous Asshole and Bucky wants Socks

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things take a turn for the worse.
> 
> Once again I owe nothing, nada, zip, its all Marvel. 
> 
> Thank you so much to my fabulous readers and for all those encouraging comments! They sincerely make my day!
> 
> As an apology for taking a century to update, I'm blasting you guys with three chapters in one day. 
> 
> Next one is a bit of a step back.
> 
> Stay Happy! <3

Bucky drove, and he missed the thrill of speed, the idea of going anywhere. It wasn’t something he’d ever really had. Before the War there was Steve, there was the cost of things, bills they could never pay. After the War he felt no desire for anything. He forgot how to dream. He had memories, memories of science fairs and flying cars, but they lost their color, their significance. Now, in a strange grey area between a boy and a machine, he found himself relishing freedom in all its forms both big and small. And of course it was Tony’s car, so it ran fast, it ran hard, and it downright purred. He drove evasively, not speed too much because that was obvious to anyone tracking them. He drove in zigzags, smoothly shifting lanes without causing an attention grabbing accident. 

Tony had pressed his thumb to the glove compartment and when it popped open he removed what looked like a curved sheet of glass with black rubber hand grips on the sides. His bandaged fingers glided faintly over the screen that glowed a pale blue with white number and letters that flew and reflected back in his eyes as they flickered over the screen. He would pause to rub his chin contemplatively, his lips moving minutely along with some internal calculation or dialogue. Bucky rested for a moment at a red light, glancing in the rear view mirror for too familiar cars or people who looked out of place. 

“Alright, thank God for Amazon. I should buy Amazon. Remind me to ask Pepper if we can buy Amazon, she’ll say no but it isn’t the strangest company I’ve tried to buy and if I bother her about it long enough or buy her some really nice shoes she might give it. It’s just practical really. I can order her apology shoes on Amazon, in order to convince her to buy Amazon. She likes Amazon. Who doesn’t like Amazon?”

Bucky felt a small grim unfurl at the corner of his mouth. People generally dislike Tony’s rambling rants, but he had a fondness for them. He was so used to orders, useful facts, and bitter silence. It was nice to hear the familiar warm chatter that poured forth and filled the air. Natasha liked silence for work, but even she found the ceaseless words comforting because it meant it was Not Work and that even if they weren’t in the building, that they were Home because stupid chatter meant Safety and Family, and Friend. Steve found it annoying, but Bucky had always liked noise, talking. 

Even before the war Bucky liked talking, because if Steve was talking he could breath and was not dying of asthma, or hypothermia, or the flu, or pneumonia. Back then it was mostly Bucky talking and Stevie’s repartee and answers, but Bucky was still finding his words. He was still finding the ones that tasted like Bucky and not like iron and blood. So being on the other side, hearing people talking to him or at him about things that didn’t involve blood and bullets and Mission Report. No, just driving in the sun in a convertible with Tony yammering about if Pepper would like slippers or pumps as part of his bribe to buy some company that shipped things. Tony seemed to be losing his own track and winding down, so Bucky prompted him. “So Amazon?” 

Tony perked up like he’d just downed three cups of coffee and grinned. Yes! Amazon! I ordered everything else I needed on Amazon. I usually prefer to get my own stuff, judge the quality, and meet the people. But since people are trying to kill me, and I mean really why is that so commonplace? Someone’s trying to kill Tony, must be a Thursday! Because some asshat is trying to kill me or you, or us, I will make an exception and put my trust in the people of Amazon. Though I do have to wonder who else but me orders industrial grade steel, pure gold, twelve 20 foot sheets of bulletproof glass, and hydrochloric acid, among other things. Is Dr. Doom getting his supplies from Amazon? I really need to buy Amazon. I would save the world.” 

Bucky noticed a blue sedan that seemed to be shadowing them and took a hard right.

“Socks! I also need socks! Fluffy socks. Do you need socks? I’m ordering you socks. Fluffy ones. Oh and polish for the arm. And Brucie’s been talking about needing new beakers. So I’ll get a set of those. And Oh Captain, My Captain is probably due for a new set of drawing charcoal and sketch pads. Clint broke the lamp in his room, so one of those. A stupid looking one to teach him a lesson. And I promised birdbrain a hammock for his room so one of those. Poptarts for Thor and helmet polish. Night light for Loki, for reasons. And hand-warmers. Sam needs a spare set of goggles. And a new mug since I broke his for science. It was important science, I swear. Did I already buy the streamers for Phil’s party? I’ll get a few more just to be save, all Captain America colors. Maria Hill needs hair bands because the curses that came out of that woman’s mouth when her hair ties broke on a mission last week, because Holy Steven Hawking, I’ve heard some cursing in my time, really, high quality cursing. She outdid them all. So good hair ties for her. Fury needs a singing flower for reasons. Natasha would probably like this bean bag chair. And they have a sale on paper backs and she love the Hobbit and Anna Karenina. Rhodey gets stamps as an ironic reminder to visit me once in a damn while. And you, what do you want?”

He turned his critical eyes on Bucky who admittedly was more focused on dodging the sedan. 

“Socks,” he repeatedly dutifully.

“Obviously. What else?” 

Bucky was still working through regaining individual want and desire, and he knew Tony asked things like this on purpose. Steve didn’t want to push. Tony hated stagnation.

“A yo-yo.” 

He startled himself with the answer. Tony’s mouth curved into a toothless, genuine smile as his fingers moved across the glass. Bucky felt himself smiling too, happy that another little thread, and thing one seemed green or blue if he had to guess, untangled itself and laid down straight and smooth in his head. 

He was still smiling when a Honda Civic T-boned their car.

The cars crashed loudly, as fear ripped across Tony’s face and filled his eyes with fire, and something small and painful and cold hit Bucky’s neck. Tony was screaming something loudly in codes, and there was the whoosh of impact as metal flew from under the shot gun seat and tact itself to Bucky, moving, growing, shifting rapidly, Jarvis speaking but Bucky couldn’t hear, Tony throwing a punch as several men in hoods swarmed him and dragged him into a waiting van. White van. Distantly Bucky thought that Tony would hate the cliché. Tony shouted something else and the boots kicked on, launching Bucky up and away into the sky line as reality kicked in. 

“Jarvis! Activate Avengers Assemble, Code Charlie-Oscar-Uniform-Lima-Sierra-Oscar-November!” 

The suit turned and he realized Tony had ordered the suit to take him back to the Tower. Jarvis relayed the order and a comm opened up. 

“Bucky! Bucky, what’s wrong, why are you in the suit?!” Steve didn’t sound like a commander, he sounded like a terrified child. 

“They took Tony, they took Tony and I’m in the suit. They took Tony.”

Steve made a strangled confused noise and Natasha’s voice was there.

“Barnes. Report.” 

“T-Bone by 2006 Honda Civic color silver. Trailed by 2001 Sedan color dark blue. License plates removed. Total of fifteen individuals present at time of kidnapping, all hooded but with muscular structure of hired muscle. Individuals in sedan of lanky build, desk jockies. Something injected via dart into my neck, condition unknown. Suit deployed but ordered to attach to me. Suit immediately after deployed set on pre-ordered coordinates to tower. In route now. Subject struggled but subdued through force and placed in white van, also missing plates, which went east.” 

The suit touched down on the landing pad outside the tower, and the pieces fell apart in order his feet as he limped into the room. Natasha was there in her battle suit, strapping her Widow Bites on. Clint was speaking on a communicator, harsh ordering tones, quiver loaded with varying style of arrow and quiver comfortable in the grip of his hand. Sam was looking for his goggles again, arguing with DUM-E who seemed to have hidden them. Bruce was meditating on the couch. Steve rushed forward to hook Bucky over his shoulder and drag him inside. Natasha’s quick fingers plucked out the dart on his neck and eyed it critically, going to Bruce to softly asking him to take a look. 

“I’m sorry Buck, I couldn’t understand you. You were speaking Russian,” Steve was saying as he helped him lay down on the couch. Clint’s talking to Coulson and Maria, they were altered the minute you called Code Coulson. I didn’t even know that is a code.” Steve was checking his pupils, checking his pulse, inspecting the injection point. “Means an Avenger is in a life threatening situation where he may or may not be dying or dead. Kidnapping falls under that.” Sam explained rather calmly before turning around and pointing to the microwave.

“Now I know you know where DUM-E put the goggles! Don’t beep at me! Where are they!?” 

Bucky shivered, shivered and shivered as everything went grey and dark and Steve was shouting again.

His last thought before everything went cold again was that Tony was supposed to buy him warm fuzzy socks so he wouldn’t be cold.


	9. Vodka Nightmares

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Marvel owns all. 
> 
> Third update of the day, whoo-hoo!
> 
> Natasha/Tony friendship. 
> 
> Have a lovely day everyone <3
> 
> Let me know if you like it!

Natasha jerked awake and was on her feet, gun aimed at the door, before her eyes had even opened. Breathe shallow in her chest and heart humming bird fast. But nothing was there. “Student Natalia,” a boorish low male voice echoes in the empty corners of her room. It was one of the reasons she loved her room. It was full of warmth and color and fluffy uselessly things that she had never owned before. It made it easier when she pulled herself from memories, or nightmares, or nightmarish memories. There’s nowhere else she could be, but safe in her room in her tower. “Student Natalia…you must elevate your leg…elevate!” An older woman’s voice cracked across the floor like a whip. Natasha slide her gun back under her pillow and sat on the edge of the bed, comforter rumpled and displaced, breathing into her hands in the stillness of the night. “Jarvis, is anyone else awake?” she said at last, whispering into the tight silence. 

“Sir is currently debating drinking himself into oblivion in the kitchen, Ms. Natasha,” the firmly disapproving disembodied voice announced primly. Natasha got up, mind made, and tugged on a silk robe before leaving the suite and taking the elevator to the communal kitchen. Tony was in grey sweats and a black tank top, eyeing different bottles critically behind his bar counter. Without preamble, Natasha ghosted over and settled on a bar stool, hands folded demurely in front of her. Continuing the silence, Tony procured a glass and slid it over, lining the bottom half with the good vodka from below the shelf. He poured himself a bourbon and they wordlessly toasted to the bags under their eyes, the tiny trembling in their fingers, and the demons in their heads. Time crawled to a stop as glass after glass went past willingly lips and burned the anger and fear from dry throats. Oddly enough it was Natasha who broke the silence first. “I was a ballerina. It was just part of a cover, but I was a ballerina. Elegant, graceful, beautiful. I moved like music.” Tony refilled her glass, and then his own.

“I never thought for myself. I rebelled a lot, but no one asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up. I never learned how to dream.” And that’s why she loved Tony, Natasha thought as she raised her glass in salute. He didn’t respond with clichés and hallmark quotes. He didn’t tell her she was still graceful, she was still beautiful, because she already knew. He didn’t suggest it wasn’t her fault, or that there was still time. He just matched her small truth with one of his own, two bitter pills to swallow. They didn’t say anything else the rest of the night or early morning. They drank until the bottles were empty, and then they opened new bottles, until the sky was a dull greyish purple. Natasha pulled at Tony’s hand till he gave in and moved from behind the bar, and they both got in the elevator. It stopped at her floor first, so she tugged at the hem of her silk robe and leaned over, placing a tender, motherly kiss on his temple. “Sweet dreams, Antoska.” He gave him a dim but sincere smile and vanished behind the sleek chrome doors to his own floor. 

Neither said anything about it again, but when Christmas came around she found a little red envelope slid under her door with tickets to the Russian Ballet, perfect seats. There was no name or signature, just a sleep deprived scrawl of “Merry Christmas” on the back of the envelope.

There were many nights after that, spent in almost silence but for quiet confessions, shared nightmares, and the clink of glasses. Sometimes they snuck off to the opera and sat nearing the rafters. Sometimes they went to family owned pizza places in shady corners of Brooklyn for pizza and across the street for a cannoli. Sometimes he flew them to a beach and they swam and build sand castles. Yes, the terrifying assassin Black Widow build sand castles. They began to speak a little more about different things. And if she kept a sea shell on her window sill to remember. They told not a soul, two people deprived of childhoods and who fought their shared nightmares with cotton candy at a circus in London or doing puzzles on the kitchen floor. Together they were children.

And it was beautiful.


	10. The Fall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tony has been taken by unknown forces. WARNING FOR TORTURE AND CURSING. MAY BE CONSIDERED GRAPHIC. IF THAT IS A TRIGGER, JUST SKIP THIS IT IS NOT WORTH ANY PAIN OR ANIXETY IT MAY CAUSE PLEASE PLEASE BE SAFE. Bucky learns he loves Tony, and so does the Programming.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's been so long! It's been a really rough time. I won't bore you with the details but it featured anxiety attacks, failed exams, possible family emergencies, loss of friendships, hurtful almost dates, and a lot of Twizzlers. Enough about me, on with the story!
> 
> Thank you to my lovely raters and fabulous commentators. You are majestic purple lions of wonderful fantasticness and make my day every day. Rock on. 
> 
> GRAPHIC VIOLENCE. TORTURE, CURSING, BE CAREFUL PLEASE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

There was a heavy clang and Bucky’s eyes began to open. He was laid up on his back in the Avengers jet. Sam and Clint were flying it and Steve was barking orders into the comms. Coulson looked like he was casually taking in the view from one of the windows, but his wrists flicked back and forth, miming the action of slitting a throat. Bruce was mediating, humming and murmuring words in a language Bucky hadn’t been programmed to understand. Natasha moved to stand beside Coulson, and nodded when she caught Bucky’s gaze. He rolled his shoulders and stood, a hand instinctively coming up to rub his neck were the dart had been injected. 

“That had enough sedative in it to kill a grizzly bear or five. About time you woke up Sleeping Beauty!” Clint called. Fury’s face flickered to life on the wall mounted screen. “Alright motherfuckers. Stark activated his homing device and we have a lock on his location, at last. If some INTERNS had not been on a MOTHERFUCKIN’ COFFFEE BREAK we would have known that SOONER, but such is life. Hill will send you the coordinates, it looks like northern Finland near the border with Russia. Satellite scans show a concrete structure with no windows, two walls, and shit ton of people armed to the teeth. The Hulk will be dropped at the front gate, Bruce your job is to break down a way in for Steve and Bucky. While they do that, Clint and Natasha will stealth parachute in from the West. And this time, actually use parachutes, dumbasses. Sam will provide aerial support after Steve and Bucky are in, drawing fire with Bruce. It’s impossible to tell where in the building Stark is until we get there. Coulson will stay on the jet and be prepped for take off. Loki and Thor-“

There was a loud thumping knock, and Clint shrieked when he saw a grumpy looking Loki and an enthusiastic Thor sitting outside the cockpit. Loki snapped and teleported both of the rumpled Asgardians inside the jet. “We got word our comrade Man of Iron has been taken prisoner and left at once!” Natasha folded her arms. “What about the femur midgets?” Thor hefted the hammer high in tribute. “The mighty warrior Lady Sif relieved us and is destroying them as we converse.” Loki brushed imaginary dust off his shoulder. “She does so love to make individuals bleed profusely.” 

“Thor you support Banner, Loki, I would give you orders but you’ll ignore me out of spite so do whatever the fuck it is you do.” 

“Sir, I think you need to see this.”

“What Agent Hill- oh FUCK me are we being hacked?!”

The screen blacked out and a new video feed played. There was a huge dimly lit concrete basement and a shaky video camera. The lights flickered on to display Tony stretched out and bound on an inclined metal rack. He was sweaty and bloody and bruises bloomed like violent purple and black flowers on all available skin. They had removed his shirt and pants but left his underwear. Blood dripped from a wicked looked cut to Tony’s side. A bald man in a loose but expensive suit walked into view, startling grey eyes shining as he clapped. “Tony, Tony my dear sweet boy, your friends are watching. Want to say hello?” Tony panted, squinting to see out of his black eye, and stuttered out a “F-f-fuck you, prick” before two shadows detached themselves and flipped the rack face down, plunging Tony into a large previously unseen bucket of frigid water. Audio of aggressive bubbling noises played through the jet speakers before he was flipped back up, and humming, the bald figure attached little electrodes. “Tony, sweet, stupid Tony. Give me the access code to the Winter Solider programming and all this stops. Hydra had a nifty little phrase that triggered self-destruct, a few poison vitals in the piston of the arm, but I noticed when we broadcasted the phrase that the asset failed to react. You changed the coding, that’s obvious, but to remove the poison would kill him based on the organic attachments. It’s time to share. The codes, Tony.” 

Stark stood his head, eyes wide and desperate as electricity arched up his body from the metal electrodes that had been driven into his skin. He screamed and screamed and screamed until no actual noise came out. His body contorted, arching off the rack and plunging his head back into the water. A click and the electricity stopped. The two shadowy henchmen flipped the rack back over to display once more the shivering bleeding body. Smoke rose from the reactor. 

“Fine. Give me Clint Barton’s arrow materials. I know you make them.” 

“No.”

“A way to collect blood from Steven Rogers?”

“Fuck you” 

“The location of Natasha Romanoff’s safe house?”

“Eat a dick”

“Nick Fury’s password for the Omega Project?” 

“Bite me.”

The bald man cocked his head to the side, considering, before lunging forward and biting deeply into the flesh between Tony’s shoulder and neck. He reared back, mouth stained pink and laughed, pausing to wipe the pink stains from his lips casually. “They can see you, dear boy. I had a colleague make sure of that. Go on, beg for help.”  
Tony bit his lip, and it was hard to tell if he drew blood or aggravated an already existing wound. “I don’t beg for anything,” he hissed, face contorting into a bizarre mix of cocky and damaged. 

His captor laughed, taking a little slim blade from another shadowy associate, and gently running the edge along the soft inner skin of Tony’s exposed arm. “You are going to be so much fun to break. Don’t worry, I won’t kill you. When I’m done, death will be a mercy.” He retraced the line, adding pressure so a dark red line of blood followed the slow drag of the blade. “It’s amazing, when Howard spoke of you he said you were a sniveling coward. Useless. Rude. A waste of his resources and time. He never said you shared his stubborn nature.” The knife ran up from Tony’s navel to his collar bone, and then below each collar bone and down again. “He said he was sure your whore of a mother had slept with some random schmuck, that you couldn’t be such a disgrace, such a failure, and have any of Howard Stark’s genetics.” The knife slowly outlined each rib with delicate precision. “He hoped you would die, of overdose or alcohol poisoning, or maybe even kidnapped, so he could start training a new apprentice, a good apprentice.” The man paused, rubbing his smooth chin contemplatively before leaning close to Tony and moving the knife in small motions for several minutes before stepping back to get a proud look. In delicate bleeding script “Failure” and “Nothing” had been carved into Tony’s pectoral muscles. The man frowned and bent down to carve something else on Tony’s inner thigh. “Burden”. He made a few random side way cuts on each of Tony’s wrists, just for fun, and set the blade down. 

“How do I trigger Loki Liesmith’s Jotun state?”

Tony’s chin was resting against his sternum, breathing heavily and spat on the floor. The bald well-dressed psychopath gripped Tony’s hair and used it to slam his skull back on the rack before punching his face again. 

“The Winter Solider codes!”

Silence. 

“The Falcon’s weight to wing ratio!”

Punch. 

“Thor Odinson’s girlfriend’s lab coordinates!”

Silence. 

“Maria Hill’s real name!”

Punch. 

“Clint Barton’s injuries!”

Punch. 

“The Widow’s safe house!”

Punch. 

“The Winter. Soldier’s. Death. Codes!”

Tony used all the strength left in him to pull his head up enough to glare at his captor. He grinned, still arrogant and deadly as ever.   
“I’ll tell you what’s gonna happen. I’m going to get out. I’m going to rip your spine out your mouth. And I’m going to piss on your dead body. While singing a lively Irish jig. You should hope that’s what happens, because if my team gets here before I get out, death will be a mercy.”

He threw his tired bleeding head back and laughed hysterically before the frustrated captor grabbed a syringe and jabbed it into Tony’s neck, before turning to glare at the camera directly. 

“He’s lasted an impressive time. But what will your little friend do when our particular blend of hallucinogenic drugs kick in to his fucked up twisted depraved subconscious? Give me the Winter Soldier’s death codes, or I’ll break your little toy.”

He physically took the camera and turned it back on Tony, who managed to look worse, eyes rolling wildly in his head and veins bulging in his arms as his chapped bleeding lips parted in a wordless scream and he convulsed against his bindings, until a guard flipped the rack so he was submerged again. 

“You have one hour.”

Fury’s face re-materialized pixel by pixel on the wall screen. Before he could speak, Bruce leapt to his feet. “Drop me now!” he snarled, making his way to the door. “Bruce-“ “DO IT!” Clint slammed an emergency door open and Bruce leapt out. Steve rushed to close the door as the jet shook. Midair, the Hulk roared to life and dropped, running along with the plane. Natasha put two firm hands on Bucky’s shoulders and shook him lightly. “This is not your fault. This is not your fault. We are going to get him. And then we are going to obliterate them all. Breath.” Distantly his brain recognized she was speaking Russian, and he felt the chill sweep up from his feet. 

The Winter Soldier programming was clawing at him, begging for control. He was terrified of that icy numb, but without words, the Soldier spoke to him. He promised that he didn’t want to keep control. He just wanted to help get their Tony back. Please. Please let him help get their Tony back. Tony loved them, the Soldier and the Man, and the Winter Soldier needed to bring Tony home to both of them. He could help. Bucky looked at Steve, ready to explain what he planned to do, but he could see in Steve’s eyes that he already knew. With a nod, Steve refocused on Fury who was cussing at someone off screen about secret agencies and how was it was a moot point if the secret agency could get secretly hacked. Bucky closed his eyes and visualized a cliff. Below was the snow and the ice he had fallen from the rain to. There was water, rushing and strong. He pictured Tony, beaten and bloody and scared until his face changed into that soft loving look he gave Bucky at midnight after a lot of scotch. Bucky felt his heels tip over the edge, felt the siren of the programming, held his arms around the image of happy safe Tony. And then he fell.


	11. The Day the Drinking Ends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam genuinely likes the arrogant unselfish bastard.

Sam liked Tony Stark a lot more than anyone had expected.

Working at the VA, Sam had gotten a lot of experience seeing how different people dealt with a life of trauma and death and danger. Some let it eat at them until it manifested in anxiety attacks and self-hatred, like Bucky. Some made a joke out of it all, making a shield around their conscious minds to protect them from the consequences of their actions like Clint. Some took on a noble cause or mission to justify it like Steve. Some let it transform them into a monster, like Bruce. Some used it and their reputation for intimidation like Natasha. Some compartmentalized by Thor. Some got lost in it like Loki. It was truly rare though that you found a soul who did all of that at once, but that’s exactly what Tony was. He was a war in a shiny suit, a smile masking a battle cry, an exposed nerve raw with the illusion of invulnerability. Sam’s mom had once called someone, a neighbor’s child, “ a tornado and a house fire, and a hurricane, all in a pretty bow”, and the phrase echoed loudly in his head when he observed Tony.

It was easy to miss to the untrained eye, but Sam hadn’t gotten his Psych degree after the military so he had something to put on his wall. He knew defensive tactics when he saw them. Heard the double meanings, the self-loathing, the loyalty, the vulnerability, and the pain that slipped through the cracks in Tony’s metaphorical armor. He never really took the suit off, in his head. He had his guard up in bed, at home, eating breakfast. It was hard to watch. But Sam also knew he had to wait this one out. Tony needed support but when he decided he was ready for it, and unlike loveable but headstrong Steve, Sam could see that Tony just wasn’t ready. 

Tony did his thing, quietly donated to charities, anonymously paid bills for vets and children, built little things for the other Tower occupants, kept the fridge stocked with everyone’s food of choice, and drank himself stupid in the dark. Bucky was good for him. Bucky made Tony want to try. Whereas Steve had charged in like a holy bull in a china shop, Bucky was like the first cold wind, slipping in before you knew it was there. He let Tony ramble. He didn’t tell Tony to go to bed, he just stayed up with him. He showed Tony his weakness, and respected Tony when he showed his. 

They were rebuilding each other like a lego house piece by piece, but the lines were blurring. It was less Tony and Bucky and more tonybucky. Some single force of regret, forgiveness, and loyalty. It was good to see. 

Then one day, Tony walked in the kitchen while Sam was making waffles and leaned next to him on the counter. “So…that offer to talk still stand?” Sam nods, finishes his waffles, and they eat. Tony wants to quit drinking, he says. He wants to stop having panic attacks and nightmares. Sam says he can help. He genuinely likes Tony, the arrogant unselfish bastard. He wonders privately what made Tony decide it was time, but then he notices crease marks from sleep on Tony’s bare arms.

Bucky wanders in and pours a glass of orange juice, silently drinking it. The pattern of the plates on Bucky’s arm almost perfectly match the little red marks on Tony’s arm. 

“Finally,” Sam mutters into his coffee with a smile. He is SO called this. Clint owes him ten bucks.


	12. Bloody Bunny

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Avengers launch their mission to get Tony back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Character death. Monty Python and the Holy Grail references. Bucky removing a dude's heart. 
> 
> Please don't hate me for the end, I promise it get's better and they aren't dead forever. 
> 
> I pinky promise. 
> 
> To those who rate and comment : you tha bomb-diggity. Rock on.

Thor had always been fond of dramatics. 

He crashed to the ground, hammer held out at his side and death glowing in his furious eyes before twisting with a bellow and sending the hammer whipping out to take out the first of the shocked sentries.

The Hulk went to town on the walls around the warehouse looking fortress, ripping the heavy concrete apart as if it was paper. That seemed to shake the cliché henchmen out of their stupor, and bullets ricocheted off the trees and the thick green skin of the Hulk. Sam swooped low, firing repulsor blasts from his gauntlets, a gift from Tony for long distance fighting. Clint and Natasha waited for the prime moment, watching as a small bunny hopped up to a confused henchman. He muttered something into his comms and bent down, just in time for the Loki bunny to savagely rip the man’s throat out in a violent spray of gore and blood. “Okay, who showed Loki Monty Python and the Holy Grail?” Mariah Hill’s frown managed to become audibly visible, Clint flinching and smirking, simultaneously terrified of Maria Hill’s wrath but please with the fact a pink tinged bunny was very busy massacring people below. “Now!” Natasha signed, and Clint fired a grappling arrow to pull them both across.

He barely dodged a bullet, feeling the whoosh of displaced air on his cheek. Natasha threw up a leg and used it to hook on his shoulder and knock him to the floor so she could fire back. “Tashaaaaa I am a grown man and I can kill my own assassins!” he whined into the concrete. “Hush,” she mutter absently, drawing what appeared to be hot glue in a square on the roof. Clint dusted himself off and fished in his pocket for the fuse. With a click of a button, the fuse burned up, letting the highly corrosive acid inside seep into the gel and cut a neat square right through the concrete building. “Building infiltrated. Send in Cap and the Solider,” Clint ordered into his comms before following his best friend in jumping down into the building.

Looking at Thor you’d never have known he had spent the whole day battling ferocious femur seeking midget warriors, with the fervor he displayed in killed the armored henchmen. Loki and returned to his original shape and produced a wicked looking double sided broad sword he was using in a graceful, dance like style of attack and defense. The Hulk turned his attention from the hole in the wall to making a similar hole in the building, flicking off defenders like pesky mosquitos on a summer evening. Bucky dropped, Steve right behind him, and calculated the fastest path into the compound, impassively slaughtering everything that stood between him and the door. Steve covered his back, checked in with Sam on the comms, and asked Coulson to send him the signal on Tony as Bucky ripped a steel door off its hinges and calmly walked through. Steel doors with numbers lined the hall, the center of the building hollow and framed by these hallway platforms. The bottom was the basement area from the video, with Tony still as death in the dark. “Wait, Buck-“ but he had vaulted over the hand rail and crashed onto the bottom level. He landed on his feet and rose slowly, deliberately. The metal arm glinted brightly in the fluorescent scarce light, and his eyes were blank and cold. 

There was a popping sound and faintly he realized it was one of the men who had tortured Tony firing the tranq gun. Bending back nearly parallel to the ground and swinging back to launch his fist into the man’s jaw, the Solider decided to take a bit of extra time instead of just snapping the sniveling man’s neck. Instead he buried the metallic fingers into the man’s sternum and punched out the other side, till he was holding the man’s frantically pulsing heart aloft. Steve was rearing back to toss the shield upward to take out the swarming figures, men and women in black pseudo military armor pouring form behind the steel doors. Bucky discarded the twitching man and his now still heart to walk over to the rack and press a firm hand to the skin under Tony’s chin, checking for a pulse. 

One of the steel doors above was kicked open and Clint back flipped over the rail, whatever was behind him exploding as Clint fired three arrows in rapid succession. The level below, Natasha emerged with her thighs around a muscular woman’s head, charged Widow Bites pressed firmly into the struggling woman’s neck till she went down. Hulk landed with a roar, having physically tunneled his way in, with Thor close behind, pausing to pick up Natasha and bring her with him to the bottom floor. Sam swooped in through the whole Hulk had made and glided to a stop, come up to check Steve over. “How fairs Tony?” Thor said in an uncharacteristically quiet voice. The Solider removed his hand and looked over dispassionately. 

“Subject is dead.”


	13. Parental Guidance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The team mourns the loss of their friend. Meanwhile Loki puts his parenting skills to use and Clint becomes very popular on Instagram.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! Please don't hate me too much for that last ending. It gets better, I promise. 
> 
> Quick note on a comment Bucky makes in Russian, I apologize if it sucks and is totally wrong, I had to use a translation website. It's SUPPOSED to say : " Little bird," ..."Little bird, little bird, do not fly away". 
> 
> Enjoy! Thank you to all the beautiful people who read this and those unicorns of excellence who comment and rate it! You rock my socks. 
> 
> Alright, I'll stop rambling and get to the story. Plus I have to go check on a goldfish I attempted CPR on. (It's a logn story).

There was a relatively quiet thud as the hammer slipped from Thor’s blood streaked and calloused fingers. Living as long as he had, many sights both beautiful and heinous had flashed before him and been burned forevermore in his mind. But what he saw now seemed to crush all previous memories to insignificance. It wasn’t beautiful, it wasn’t heinous. It was just…more. The Winter Soldier kneeled on the hard floor, having removed Tony from his constraints and cradled the ferocious brilliant man softly. If Thor had missed the chilling pronouncement, he would know just from the stillness of Tony that his soul no longer dwelled inside. Tony was never still, his hands flew, his face contorted and displayed very emotion. He was forever speaking, mouth shouting curses or ordering take out or whispering comfort or snarling snarky comments at their foes. Tony was motion. Such stillness was unnatural to the extreme, for Thor’s friend. Even in his sleep, Tony rolled and snored and muttered half equations into his pillow while his legs flailed. So pale and still, there could be no doubt the man who had made the team a family was dead. 

Steve had turned to stone, a tense pillar of defeat as agony ripped through him nerve synapse by nerve synapse. It wasn’t flashes of sweet memories, or brave seconds from life threatening battles, just a single moment when Tony had been at Steve’s bedside after a rough battle, reading to what he thought was an unconscious Steve. He was greasy and sweaty from the workshop, and even had the Iron Man gauntlets on. But his feet rested on the hospital bed, the welding mask pushed up off his face as he softly read in a new language. It took Steve’s foggy mind a minute to realize it was Welsh, and it was strange and musical. The book he held reverently was aged and soft blue with gold tinged pages and hand written verses. He had laid their much longer than he should, listening. Jarvis had admitted later the book was a gift from the first, human, Jarvis. 

That Tony had been very sick when he was little, and when Howard went to drink away his ravenous rambling thoughts and Maria painted on a smile for her party guests, Jarvis had fetched a book his own mother had read to him . The butler had sat beside young weak Tony, willing him to health. Tony was sunshine, intense and warm and illuminating and inside Steve it had healed the odd little cracks and holes time and loss had worn. That bright impossible light had died. Everything was dark and cold, and Steve was very, very familiar with cold. Blood dripped tiredly from unhealed wounds, smearing over the arc reactor, and the little metal electrodes were still buried under skin and scorched black. His quick brown eyes were terrified, defeated, and at the very edges, resigned. He knew he was going to die, Steve realized with a nauseous lurch. Before dark had stolen him, Tony had realized he was going to die, and he had let go. No anger in his unusually slack face and clouded eyes. He would never have blamed them for being too late. 

“It wasn’t even an HOUR!” Steve roared, slamming his fist into the wall. Natasha was looking at the arc reactor, still glowing blue but with no heart to fuel. She wondered idly if the shrapnel had finally pierced his heart. “Coulson. Stark is down.” She would mourn later, the mission and her teammates came first. She would break the furniture and scream silently when she was alone, with no one to be responsible to. 

“How bad?” 

No. No. Shit. No. She was not going to crack. She forced her eyes closed and snarled “Permanently.”

Ripping out her comm, Natasha nudged Sam, who walked cautiously to where Steve was beating the concrete like it had insulted his mother. The Hulk had become Bruce again, rubbing his glasses on his tattered shirt and moving to sit beside Bucky. 

Two shaky fingers tested for a pulse he knew wasn’t there. And for the first time since he was five years old and his father hit him the first time, Bruce cried. He cried with no shame, sobbing loudly into his hands and shuddering on the exhale. He cried because no one else could cry. They were trapped in leadership roles for the time, but Bruce wasn’t. He was just Bruce. The kid whose Dad killed his Mom. The kid no foster family wanted. The scientist who went too far. The monster. The doctor. The avenger. A friend. He had friends, he had even had a best friend. A best friend who threw berries at him and called the Hulk “Ol’ Reliable” or “Jolly Green Giant”. A best friend who never let Bruce mourn alone, who made Bruce laugh till he cried when he beat himself up, who crowed in praise over all of his accomplishments without patronizing. A best friend who remembered his birthday and actually made a cake, chocolate with strawberry frosting. And that best friend was gone. So he cried, he cried for that little kid, for that broken man, for that dear friend. He cried for his friends who couldn’t and he knew nothing, not time, not gods, not even all his friend’s money could ever make right this wrong. That reality was the nightmare now. 

Clint wordlessly draped his arms around Natasha and she felt him sign “cry” over and over and over, not a command to her, but the only way he could let out the pressure inside him that was rapidly building up. Clint and Natasha had lost friends before, had lost comrades and co-workers. They’d lost family and homes and loved ones and they knew that they owed it to the team to keep it together. They had to be strong because if they broke, there would be no gluing back together the shards. 

Bucky was still the Winter Solider, but he didn’t look it when he cradled Tony’s limp head in his lap and ran flesh fingers through his short greasy hair. “Malen'kaya ptichka,” he whispered. “Malen'kaya ptichka , malen'kaya ptichka , pozhaluysta, ne uletet'”

His head rested low and he fell apart, equally Bucky and Programming when he said “Don’t go where I cannot follow.” His heart was torn between rushing too fast or halting completely. It went beyond words or even his own comprehension, the loss that consumed him. He deserved to be happy. He had gone through so much, so much blood, and dirt, and shit, and pain and for a few weeks he’d had that happiness and it had been snatched out from between his fingers and extinguished forever.

It was into this scene of mourning and loss that Loki dropped, gracefully. He cracked his neck and stretched. “Me, that was strenuous. What’s got everyone weeping like a handmaiden who didn’t get invited to the ball?”

Natasha nodded to Bucky and Tony. “Tony’s dead.” Fuck, she though. Fuck, how many people am I going to have to say that to? Loki’s eyes widened and he pushed passed everyone till he had a clear view of Bucky whispering and rocking Tony’s damaged corpse. 

“Right,” the Trickster said solemnly. “This just isn’t going to do.”

He snapped and the armor they had seen Loki wear to their first battle with the him crystallized around him, golden horns included. He even had a cape this time. His skin flashed blue and his eyes boiled red as he lifted up his hands, what looked like chalk appearing in his grasp. 

“This simply won’t do,” he snarled, bending down to start drawing on the floor. “None of you pathetic mortals can grasp my sense of humor. You are atrocious at prank wars, and he’s the only one who knows how I like my coffee. This simply will not do.” He raced around, drawing graceful and downright alien circles and spheres interconnected with lines and runes. With a flick of the wrist the piece of chalk disappeared and a small dagger the color of emeralds flashed. He drew it across his palm, still rambling. 

“Plus Bruce’s taste in movies is awful. I cannot watch another documentary about this moronic world. What is a giraffe? How was that a logical design? I mean, what can the yellow monstrosity even do except for tip over!? Ridiculous. And your milk, what mortals wandered to a beast and started squeezing till fluids came out, and then DRANK IT!? It’s amazing you all didn’t die out ages ago to be honest.” 

The blood fell from his hand into the intricate chalk design, and Loki spoke on as if he didn’t notice. “And my favorite color is not green by the way. Only one who knew it? The dead one. It isn’t green, just because I invade wearing green does not make it the only color in my whole wardrobe! Do you know what my favorite color is?” Loki paused to wrap his hands around Bucky’s shoulders and drag him and Tony into one of the central circles. “Blue! I like blue! I don’t know why people began associating me with green but Odin’s beard I’d take pink over green these days! Not one of you thought to ask, and yet this idiot, stupid enough to get himself kidnapped and murdered, does!” 

Loki wandered to Thor and drew the knife across his arm, earning a shout of surprise from Thor, which the Liesmith answered with an eye roll. “Please. Do not be an infant.” Loki flicked the blood into a different circle and reached into his shirt to clutch some sort of golden pendant. It glowed green. “That does not negate my point,” he muttered, arching his eyebrows. The circle containing Thor’s blood filled with the smell of salt and a column of thick churning smoke and ash. 

When the ash settled, a young woman rose up like a ballerina. She moved with supreme elegance and grace, giving a little twirl before bowing to Loki, and grinning. Her physical appearance was disquieting. Half of her was of the most stunning woman ever seen, black lush curly hair, elegantly arched eyebrow, glowing bright purple eye, plump red lips, and smooth muscular skin. A silvery scar ran from her head down, and the other half was a rotting corpse. It was as if half of the woman was an immortal goddess, and the other what she would like after four centuries and a shamble of a tomb. Her skin was papery and blue with a small shriveled purple eye that swiveled back and forth. Her lips were not present, having decomposed so only her jawbone and teeth were visible. Her skin was little more than a blue color over sheer bones. Both sets of fingernails had been carefully painted dark purple, and she wore a leather jacket over a Green Day concert shirt and a black miniskirt with fishnet leggings and combat boots. 

“Hello Father!” she giggled, launching at Loki and tackling him in a warm hug. Loki embraced her and kissed the rotten side of her head. “My own sweet little one.” She stepped back and bowed to him again. “I can’t stay long Papa. What’s wrong? You always come to visit me instead of pulling me from work.” 

Thor’s jaw dropped, literally, and made a little clicking noise. “Hel?” She rolled both eyes and stuck out a half shriveled tongue. “Uncle Kiss Ass, I can’t believe how long it’s been. When was the last time I saw you? When you enslaved my brother or when you ripped my sibling’s guts out and tied Papa to a rock with them?” Her sugar sweet voice had turned venomous the moment she laid eyes on the blonde Asgardian. “The fuck…?” Clint whispered. Natasha shrugged. Every family had problems. 

Loki frowned and shook his head. “Everyone, this is my daughter Hel the guardian of souls. Hel, the Avengers. Now sweetheart, I need a favor.” He gestured to Tony and Bucky. She frowned and walked over, placing her healthy hand on Tony’s chest. “You want me to bring him back?” Loki nodded firmly. “I am sorry, dear heart. I have tried to never conflict with your work, and I know many times I have failed.” 

A small smile stole across Hel’s face and we danced over and kissed her father’s cheek. “Oh Papa, you are such a good father to us. We love you terribly. And you’ve never asked me to bring someone back before.” Hel frowned and shrugged, cracking her knuckles and striding back to Tony. “Why the Me not? Us LokiBorn need to cause a little mischief every once in a while.” Her hands glided over his chest, a warm violet light following them. “Well all his organs are in place. And he isn’t impaled. Or beheaded. The beheaded ones are always tricky. Who can be his anchor?” Natasha and Sam traded a confused glance across the room. “What…what’s an anchor?” Steve rasped from his slumped position in the circle of Sam’s arms. 

“When a soul is brought back, it needs something already living to tie to, at least temporarily. It’s this Star Trek-y psychic connection thing. The anchor helps the soul reattach to its host form and dimension of choice. Needs to be someone he is around and who loves him.” He paused and surveyed the room. “There are a lot of strong connections. Bruce would be best but he’s too unstable. Steve would work if it was Sam and visa vera. Same goes for Red and Legolas. It can’t be you Papa because it would be too much a strain on your healing after the Tesseract, and don’t even try to tell me you aren’t still healing from that one!” Her soft fingers touched the seam in Bucky’s shoulder where metal fused with flesh. “You. You’re just right. Ready?” He gave a firm nod and felt fire. 

His nerves were on fire. Hel’s eyes glowed a fierce violet as did the light pouring from the palms of her hands, resting on Bucky and Tony. There was a scream, a crack and a shudder and the room seemed to tilt on it’s edges. Air exploded out in a concussive blast and knocked everyone gathered off their feet. When they scrambled up, Hel was shaking in Loki’s arms and Bucky was staring intently at Tony, purple light fading into both of them. “Thank you sweetheart,” Loki whispered into her hair.  
She smiled against his shirt. “No problem Papa. I can see how much he means to you.”

He let her go home before turning to Bruce and helping him up. Bruce sighed heavily at his dirty and busted glasses but turned to cautiously but hopefully check Tony. “PULSE! He has a PULSE! Oh thank the God I don’t believe in, thank the Norse pantheon, I don’t care if we need to offer a hundred virgins to a Minotaur because we have a FUCKING PULSE!!” Bruce screamed, jumping up and down. Sam shouted into his comm unit for back up and Steve took a few short strides to check for himself.   
“Did….did Bruce just curse?” Clint whispered. Natasha shrugged again and went to crouch beside Tony, whose sides rose and fell with the intake of breath. She felt tears piercing her eyes like icicle needles stubbornly drilling up and forced them down, until she saw them pouring in silent thin rivers down Bucky’s face. Bruce was jumping and crying tears of joy, Steve threw his head back and laughed loud and partially hysterical in relief and all but tackled Sam in his joy. Loki and Thor kissed Hel’s forehead and she disappeared in another burst of salt and smoke. Even Clint was rubbing his eyes roughly, trading a look-at-us-the-big-bad-super-spies-crying look with Natasha, who smiled and let the tears fall. 

Tony’s breathe stalled, and he shot up, gasping and blinking away his own tears before being crushed into Bucky’s chest. Tony pulled back enough to check Bucky over and grinned cheekily. “Please tell me somebody kissed me,” the genius chirped. Bucky surged forward and planted a possessive desperate kiss on a shocked Tony’s mouth, before he returned the favor in earnest. People whistled and cat called while Clint uploaded the picture to Instagram. The moment lost a little bit of its glamor when Shield paramedics burst in, but such was the life of super heroes.


	14. Costume Change

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello all. Finals have reared their ugly head, but I will update much much more as the summer comes along. Pinky promise. Just don't actually cut off my pinkies if my updates are sorta slow. I need them. For...balance or whatever. For reasons. This is what caffeine and no sleep does to the human brain. WOOOOO. Sigh. Hit me in the head so I have an excuse to go to sleep. Here's the update! I adore all my awesome readers and delightful comment-makers and kudos-givers. You are the human embodiment of the feeling of sipping ice tea in your backyard with a good book on a warm but not hot summer day. 
> 
> OH and warning for candy underwear and nipple tassels.

Back at the Tower in the unfortunately well-used medical bay, Bruce had gotten Tony to agree to stay in bed for an exam and treatment on the promise afterward the recently temporarily deceased genius would be allowed to limp to his own bed. What went unsaid was the fact Bruce had sent Clint and Natasha to tie ropes to the bottom of the bed in preparation for the inevitable boredom fueled struggle when Tony realized he was going to be bed ridden for weeks. Natasha had already called Pepper who had happily gathered a pile of paperwork. Steve was planted firmly between the door and the hospital bed, guarding from any possible potential enemies, as though any person could slip past JARVIS. Sam was helping Bruce, mainly serving as a holder-of-things and a hey-hand-me-that person, leading Tony to crack a nurse costume joke and flood Steve’s face with blood, earning a hysterical laugh from Loki who snapped an indignant Sam into an actual nurse costume, thoroughly confusing Thor who saw absolutely nothing wrong with the maid outfit. With a sincere expression he suggested another bow on the apron and requested another in Thor size. 

Natasha and Clint walked back into the hospital room and froze in the door, glancing around at the scene that met them with absolute wide-eyed shock. Sam was in a slinky nurse costume, a muscled arm around Loki’s neck as he bashed him in the head with a feather-duster, screaming insults. Steve was hiding behind a curtain, the edge of a white tutu peeking out, as well as a bit of tights and pointed ballet shoes. His face was redder than a fire truck and his pupils blown wide. Thor was happily spinning in another maid outfit, just as skimpy, littered with bows and glitter with a scarlet manicure, humming something pretty in Asgardian. Bucky was hiding, the Winter Soldier was actually hiding, glaring out from behind the hospital bed as Tony writhed on the hospital bed laughing so hard he gripped his sides and tears poured out. Bruce was patiently continuing to examine blood and skin samples, organ function, pulse, and temperature of his patient, politely pretending he had not been dressed in a bubble gum pink slinky nurses outfit, large hands fisted loosely on his hips and glasses, bedazzled with sequins, sliding down his nose. 

“Okay, what the FU-“ 

With a snap Clint had been swapped with Loki, being bashed with Sam’s feather duster. When the archer finally wrestled his way out, he shrieked. Loki had snapped him into candy underwear and nipple tassels, in addition to a neon blue feathered golden headpiece. His feet had been put into perfectly well fitting golden sequined shoes. He whipped around when he saw a flash to see Nat clicking away on her phone’s camera. “Why didn’t he mess with you!?” Clint shrieked, pursing bright red lips and stomping his high heels. Nat shrugged, taking an obvious full front picture with a quiet grin. “He knows I am one of the few beings in the universe capable of murdering him in his sleep.” Loki’s head popped into visibility for a second to nod. “True,” he chirped with manic glee, before disappearing again when Clint tried to get a hold.

“Alright Tony, I need to get your shirt off so I can check your ribs. Natasha?” Natasha handed her phone to Bucky, who dutifully took up her job snapping pictures while she helped cut Tony’s shirt off. Bruce made critical little noises before grabbing a roll of bandages and getting to work. By the time he’d cleaned, stitched, wrapped, and treated every injury on Tony, Loki had been forced to return everyone’s clothes but for Thor who genuinely liked his outfit. The only one unsurprised by that was Loki himself who shrugged and said “My brother doesn’t really care for gender stereotypes. They don’t really register to him at all.” Natasha had settled on the counter, tapping at her phone.   
Clint had a sick feeling Maria Hill and Agent May currently had copies of all those pictures, including the one of Clint jumping midair, brandishing a petri dish as a weapon, feather flying behind him. 

Tony refused any pain killers, worrying Bruce deeply. “Tony, you are in an inhuman amount of pain. You have to take something!” the normally patient doctor snapped, shoving his glasses roughly back into place. “Can’t. I can’t Brucie baby. I have a bad history with prescription pills and it took years to get clean. Can’t risk it. Not even Advil.” Bucky wrapped metallic fingers in a loose cuff around Tony’s wrist. “What if we help?” he offered softly, startling the room’s occupants into silence. But Tony shook his head firmly, wincing afterward. “Can’t risk it. Was worse than the cocaine or the alcohol. Promise me, you won’t give me anything.” 

Bucky sighed and brushed his hair back, nodding. “We promise.” Tony eyed everyone else crticially till even Bruce gave his assent. The doctor sighed and fluffed up the pillows, double checking all the machines and bandages. “Jarvis, please connect the monitors to the building’s security system with an alert said if any levels drop or rise out of pattern,” the weary man murmured into his hand as he yawned. “As you wish, Doctor Banner. May I suggest rest for everyone?” Natasha nodded and walked to Tony, giving him a quick motherly kiss on the forehead. “Be well.” Bruce gave him another once over before a brilliant smile and murmuring “Ditto” before following Natasha out of the lab.

“You used up your last Give-Sam-A-Heart-Attack card buddy. No more. No more life threatening situations, near death experiences, actual death experiences, limb removal, organ failure, nothing, or so help me I will kill you myself. You’ve aged me ten years, you son of a bitch.” Sam concluded by placing a warm hand on Tony’s shoulder. “Feel better man.” Steve was still shaking, adrenaline coursing through every vein. “I’m sorry I didn’t…and you…but I could have…and then the time… but….I’ll do better.” Tony didn’t laugh. He just took hold of his hand and squeezed. “I am alive. You are alive. The team is alive and okay and together. You did just fine Cap. Go eat all my fudgsicles since I know you want to, and get some sleep with your…what was it…Chocolate Adonis?” Steve blushed and gave Tony a tiny little smile.

Clint was the last, ever silent, ever watching. He checked Tony over just like Bruce had, scarred hands quietly working. He dismissed the charts as he didn’t understand them, and signed to Tony: “How are you really?” Tony sighed and signed back: “In a lot of pain. I’ll be okay. Take care of the team. And try to actually sleep tonight instead of watching me through the ducts to make sure I’m breathing.” Clint huffed a laugh and signed: “I’ll keep an eye on everyone. You included.” He nodded to Bucky and went to make sure people ate and slept instead of just nervously pacing. Bucky sat and ran his flesh fingers through Tony’s short greasy hair. “You scared me idiot,” he murmured. Tony merely leaned into the touch, eyes pinched shut and breathe ragged. “I wish I could help. Is there anything I can do? Bucky offered. Tony nodded, surprising the former assassin. “Please. Lay with me.” Tony tried to wiggle over to make room and Bucky took pity on him, lifting him bodily and settling in behind him, propping the smaller man up on his chest and looping his arms around him protectively. “Did you mean it?” Tony whispered, already half asleep. “Mean what?” There was a heavy pause. “The kiss?” Bucky smiled into Tony’s hair and placed another kiss on Tony’s face. “We will talk more later. Sleep now. But yes, I meant it.”

Clint nodded approvingly, squirreled away in the air vents where not even Bucky could see. He would let the team know. It was time for the Shovel Talk.


	15. Stolen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Brief little interlude before the shovel talks begin. The shovel talk chapters may be a bit short because everyone who gives a talk is going to get their own chapter. Also, Darcy will be making an appearance soon, Hela will return eventually, Peter and Wade and showing up soon. The story ain't even close to being done, so to my amazing readers, thank you so much for encouraging me to actually keep writing. You're the bees' knees people! <3

When the sun came in through the window, Bucky blinked lazily to consciousness, a first for him. Sleep had always been totally unconscious or completely alert, no hazy in betweens. But with an arm tucked behind his head and the other loosely holding Tony to his chest, he embraced the muddle senses and quiet breathing and the world came back into focus. Tony, the damn idiot, was still sleeping. There was furrows were his eyebrows had come down in pain, a pinched look to him even in his dreaming. It took a considerable amount of self-control not to reach over and take hold of the IV bag, injecting some morphine or something, anything, to make the pain stop for the bruised and bandaged man wheezing in the bed beside him. But a promise was a promise. Bucky had experienced more than a life time of other people making choices about you, changing your body against your own will. He wouldn’t wish that on anyone, least of all Tony who already had the hardest time of everyone on the team trusting others. A break in that trust now would be catastrophic to any future he could have with him. 

So Bucky leveled out his breathing, and brushed his fingers through Tony’s hair, quietly counting his breathing pattern, rubbing soft circles into the muscles of his back and stomach like another Bucky had once done for a sickly blond with wide blue eyes. That had felt more paternal though, those long nights running a damp cloth over Stevie’s forehead, rubbing his muscles, turning him over when he had to vomit. He loved Stevie, and he loved Tony, both with equal heart wrenching, logic-crushing, ferocity. It was simply a different sort of love. He had never wanted to kiss Stevie, but his nightmares had been a horror show of Steve’s heart stopping, bones breaking, gunshot riddled, eyes wide, skin waxy, coffins in the dirt, and a grim faced doctor.

Bucky brushed his lips lightly over Tony’s cheek, amazed when the furrows and pain tightened facial expression eased a bit, to something more relaxed. He wanted to trail his fingers and lips over every centimeter of skin on Tony’s body. Memorize his scars and their stories, learn the dips and curves of him like a map. He wanted to know without thinking twice were a simple touch or innocent kiss would pull a quiet little sigh, returning the genius from the brilliance of the depths of his own mind to reality. To Bucky. Bucky wanted to hold his hands, feel the rough callouses resulting from years of hard work. He wanted to have Tony to come home to, and to come home to Tony. And now the little breakable genius had joined Stevie in Bucky’s worse nightmares. The arc reactor greying his skin, billets tearing flesh, a fall breaking his spine, poisoning, kidnapping, till they all blurred into a bloody flash of agony and panic that left the super soldier panting for oxygen when he jerked up in bed.

 

It was so tempting, to beg Tony to stay safe. To put away the suits and just be his one safe thing. But Bucky knew better than that. He couldn’t take the sky from Tony, no more than he could take it from a bird. To love Tony was to love him enough to let the man lead his own life, on his own terms, and to be there for him. Easier said than done, Bucky mused, running his fingertips down Tony’s spine. But if he could put up with Bucky’s programming, his panic attacks, his memory lapses, his PSTD, and the wagon load of scars, Bucky could learn to love the reckless stubbornness so integral to Tony’s personality. Tony huffed a little sigh, shifting over and burrowing his face deeper into Bucky’s chest with a happy murmur. The hand without an IV in it curled around Bucky’s shoulder and his hair brushed against the vulnerable underside of Bucky’s chin. That would have been enough to trigger a flashback for him usually, but God or whoever had decided to give him these stolen moments of peace.

Bucky let his eyes drift shut, slowly tumbling backward into a happy sleep.   
In his mind, the ice receded. And he felt for the first time, the sun.


End file.
